


Solace

by koosei



Series: Seeking Solace [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Body Horror, Character Death Fix, Everybody Lives, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Fix-It, I'm not gonna let him die, Miqo'te (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Nothing, and meta headcanons, anxiety attack, featuring many many headcanons, so much meta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-01-06 23:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18398948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koosei/pseuds/koosei
Summary: After the Garlean attack on the Waking Sands, the WoL is left adrift, unable to find solace even in the nigh endless abyss of battle.  Lord Haurchefant Greystone provides a welcome breath of fresh air after the stuffy arrogance of the Observatorium at least.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In which the author was devastated by certain events in canon, disappointed at the lack of multi-chapter fics with a Miqo'te WoL, and became determined to write her own. 
> 
> Starring my in game character from Adamantoise, and gratuitous shipping of said character with it dear Lord Greystone. 
> 
> I don't own the world or characters, just writing for fun. If i did, I'd likely have a tail of my own. 
> 
> I've got a lot planned for this and it may end up being a slow burn, but if you enjoy it, please let me know!

**CH1**

 

When they first meet, the famed Warrior of Light is half frozen with cold on his front step. Here is the next possible lead to find the Enterprise, but she couldn't care less as long as she's able to get out of this damnable cold. The guards in Fallgourd Float had tried to warn her about the cold, but there are some warnings you don't fully appreciate until it’s too late. Leather armor might ward against the elements in the Twelveswood perfectly well, but not the unrelenting cold of Coerthas. And stuffing fire shards into one's pockets was typically considered a Bad Idea, regardless of how well it works in the moment.

 

“Thank the Twelve he's easier to find than Lord Francel” she mutters under her breath as she stomps through the snow and away from the inviting warmth of the chocobo stable. It’s tempting to make like Cid and Alphinaud and follow the bird and porter inside, but no, there's a Lord to speak to. With any luck Lord Francel’s letter of introduction will be enough to sway this new Lord. Thus far you've received a welcome to rival the chill of the snows outside.

 

Unlike Skyfire Locks, Camp Dragonhead is fairly compact, and it's easy enough to gain one's bearings.  _ The sooner this is done, the sooner I can warm my tail at a fire _ , she thinks, hopping up onto the stairs and pushing open one of the large wooden doors.

 

“Ah, the unmistakable swagger of a well-traveled adventurer.” Lord Haurchefant’s voice rings out through the stone walled room and said adventurer's ears twitch slightly in surprise under the hood of her cloak. It's a pleasant voice, smooth and strong, and lacking any of the disdain she's grown accustomed to since arriving in Coerthas.

She starts removing her cloak as she approaches the lord of the camp, drawing a small sound of surprise from the woman standing at the corner of the table when the adventurer shakes the hood free of her head, exposing the ears typical of a Miqo'te. Surprise is closely chased across her face by belated realization when the similarly colored tail flicks with annoyance as it's freed from the draping fabric of the cloak.

 

_ They truly must not see many Miqo'te here at all _ . There have been naught but Elezen and Hyur since she crossed the border into Coerthas, save that one Roegadyn fellow running errands for the Levemaster back in the Observatorium. Lord Haurchefant Greystone of House Fortemps doesn't seem fazed by her otherness at least, something she notes with satisfaction as he takes the letter out of her outstretched hand.

 

_ At least there's one Elezen here that won't gawk at me all the damned time _ , she thinks sourly to herself. It was novel and somewhat amusing at first, but quickly lost its luster after a full day spent fighting to get the headstrong fools in that tower to even deign to speak to her only to hear gossiping whispers about her ears and tail as soon as she turned her back.

 

Lord Haurchefant's blank, diplomatic expression crumbles part way through the letter and a scowl overcomes his face as he rises to pace behind the confines of his desk, letter still in hand. “If there is any justice in this world, these charges will receive no serious consideration. How could they?”

 

It doesn't seem like he's expecting an answer. In fact, he seems to be fully absorbed in reading the contents of the letter. At least, until he pauses on his pacing and turns, fixing her in place with his bright blue eyes. So intense is his gaze that she doesn't even notice him setting the letter down on the desk. “The letter makes mention of a pressing matter for which you require assistance. What might that be?”

 

Her voice is soft and quiet from infrequent use but Lord Haurchefant seems to have no trouble hearing her, stopping his energetic pacing while he's told of the Enterprise and it's last known location. There's no need for them to know of its intended use though. These Ishgardians seem to have enough on their plate already without worrying about Garuda's presence at their border. There's no point in bringing it up, not when she'll be dealt with soon enough.

 

It's disappointing though, to find he has no knowledge of the Enterprise, and that there are few that might even have seen it at all. The offer to make inquiries about it is greatly appreciated however. And even more so the offer of hospitality at Camp Dragonhead.

 

The close scrutiny when he looks her over more closely is something she's unaccustomed to, ears flicking back nervously in an unconscious movement as she hitches her bow and quiver to sit higher up on the back. Maybe she should have kept the cloak on, it's much more preferable when people don't take special notice.

 

He smiles softly at her then, and turns to summon one of his aides. “Prepare rooms for our adventurer friend and her companions. They may be here some time.” He bows deeply as he gestures with a long arm towards the hearth on the side of the room. “Please, warm yourself by the fire, friend. You've arrived at a most opportune time, I'm glad to say! Medguistal will have the evening's dinner ready soon. Would you dine with me?”

 

His smile is earnest and his eyes hopeful, and she can't recall the last time she received such a welcome with no expectations attached. It's second nature to agree, and she finds herself watching him out of the corner of her eyes as she claims a spot close to the flames.

 

The aide (liegewoman, perhaps? Ishgardians do seem to be fond of their formalities) that startled when she walked by presents him with a pile of letters and paperwork. That's a man resigned to a dull task if you've ever seen one before; he sighs heavily, whole body slouching before regaining the straight backed posture that's so common in nobility.

 

Turning back to the fire to hide her giggle at his obvious displeasure at more paperwork, she misses the way his eyes keep darting up from the tedious task in front of him to glance in her direction. A servant bringing a cup of hot ginger tea is almost enough to make the notoriously silent Warrior of Light purr in contentment, hands soaking in the warmth of the mug as she breathes in the steam.

  
  


****

  
  


He has to be repeatedly reminded that the other outposts in the region are waiting for these supplies, and really my Lord, the sooner you finish these requisitions the better prepared they will be. Haurchefant knows that, but it's been so long since an adventurer came to call at Camp Dragonhead, and never one quite like her.

 

He's heard of the cat people of Eorzea of course, Father had ensured his education was on par with that of Artoirel and Emmanellain, but to see one of them in person is another thing entirely. And while he has no basis of comparison on what a Miqo'te typically looks like, she is … splendid. Lithe and sleek in form despite the ill suiting leather armor, and looking quite content while she stands almost too close to the fire for his comfort. The incessant twitching of the tip of her tail reminds him so very much of the cats that Medguistal keeps in the kitchens, and the distraction is incredible.

 

He pretends not to hear Corentiaux's muttered “Praise Halone” when the servant that he had sent to prepare a room returns to show the adventurer to them.

 

….. What was her name again? Mala? No, it had one of those odd beginnings to it that he vaguely recalls reading about her people being fond of. A quick glance over to the letter still at his elbow reminds him. M'aila . No surname given though. It strikes him as a bit odd; having been written by Francel, a son of a High House and very much steeped in the formalities of such things, but mayhap Miqo'te don't believe in such things. The lack should make it that much easier to remember her name, at least.

 

To Corentiaux's great relief Lord Haurchefant's focus swiftly reappears with the adventurer removed from the room. Supply requisitions are signed off on, leaves are approved, and replies to the various other forts and houses of Ishgard are sent, including a handful of letters subtly inquiring about an airship not seen for 5 years.

 

In fact, he's just seeing the courier to the door with the stack of letters when the evening bell rings to signal a change in the shifts. It's with a broad grin stretching across his face that he walks away from his desk, and all but skips down the steps.

 

It's a small fort, for all that it would be one of the most important in the event of a non-draconian threat, and has not been expanded in decades. Usually the continued lack of approval for such would be a point of annoyance, but the prospect of someone new and fascinatingly different has that topic completely out of mind as he walks briskly through the camp, passing under the aetheryte and turning to the camp's mess hall and the promise of Medguistal's cooking.

 

As he exits the makeshift tunnel, he's greeted with the sight of the adventure speaking with two other individuals that he doesn't recognize. One is a young Elezen lad, back turned to Haurchefant's approach, with long white hair and clad entirely inappropriately for the current weather.  _ Not Ishgardian then, perhaps another adventurer? _ The other an older Hyuran man, white of hair yet heavily muscle-bound with sharp, wary eyes that easily spot Haurchefant as he walks into view.

 

The boy doesn't notice the slight change in expression; busy giving reassurances to the older man it seems. No warrior, then, the young one.

 

M'aila, however, notices almost immediately that her companion's focus is now elsewhere. Her ears swivel to listen behind her before any other movement, tail stopped in its gentle swaying for a bare moment before she turns.

 

Her head turns a bare fraction, glancing from the corner of her eye and subtle enough to have not been noticed had Haurchefant been looking anywhere but at her. And then she turns more fully and smiles at him in greeting, eyes weary and shadowed, but alert nonetheless.

 

It's with that same, soft voice that she introduces her companions as Alphinaud Leveilleur, a fellow Scion of the Seventh Dawn, and Cid Garlond.

 

Ushering them into the warmth of the hall, Haurchefant wonders if this is truly the self-same Garlond of the famed Garlond Ironworks. From the rumors that have managed to make it to his desk, one would think he had died in the Calamity years ago. Yet here is a man healthy and whole.

 

… Or perhaps not. The younger lad seems to be watching him closely with a concerned look to his eyes, Master Garlond seemingly alternating between sharp attention and a far-away glazed look, as if trying to recall something of great import that yet eludes him.

 

Medguistal, Halone bless her, has already seen to the extra placings for their guests. While the table at the front of the hall bears enough seats for himself and each of the Knights under his command, it's rare that Haurchefant actually has any company in the evenings.

 

While Cid and Alphinaud seat themselves, Haurchefant pulls back the chair next to his own, holding it out for M'aila to take her seat. He can't help but notice the faint blush in her cheeks, or the way her tail twines around to rest on her lap as he claims his own seat.

 

“Please! Eat! Tis not a pleasant journey on a day like today, and it’s not bragging to say we have the best cook this side of Ishgard!” Medguistal, ladle in hand and leading one of her aides down the long tables with a steaming pot of today’s stew, turns to level a flat look at her lord in response to his over-loud statement and over-generous boast.

 

His grin is wide and charming as he smiles down at her from across the room. Long-suffering though she may pretend to be, the two of them have long since come to an understanding. It’s to the point that the camp's head cook doesn't even deign to grace her lord with a response, instead merely turning back to her task and chiding her blushing helper back into action.

 

“I would like to thank you for your most gracious offer of accommodations, Lord Haurchefant.” Alphinaud Leveilleur’s voice is clear, and high with youthful vigor. Light amusement flits through Harchefaunt upon noticing that M'aila is just short enough that he can see clear over her head, pointed ears only just obscuring her companion's face from view.

 

“In truth, we were hoping to receive leave to stay in the barracks. T’was unexpected, but your offer is most welcome indeed. I hope we aren't displacing any of your people from their beds?”

 

“On the contrary, Master Alphinaud. From time to time my Knights wish to host a guest or two, or people of import from the Houses of Ishgard come to visit. Or, we find ourselves without and in need of space for guests.” Harchefaunt's smile is warm and charming as he bows his head in acknowledgment of said guests.

 

Better not to mention the fact that one of his Knights had reported a bed bug complaint in the barracks a few days ago, and that the guests rooms were typically off limits to even Ishgardian of lower birth, let alone outsiders.

 

Word was likely already en route to his father that he was allowing outsiders unapproved by the Holy See to stay inside the fort and in the chamber's typically reserved for Lord Edmont de Fortemps and his other sons, and next to Haurchefant's own chambers. But, they had warned his dear friend Francel of the impending charges against him, allowing them time to build an argument against the false charges. And all they asked in return was word of a lost airship.

 

That alone is worth risking the See's ire. This adventurer and her companions likely have no idea of the magnitude of what they have done, or the depths of his gratitude. But by Halone, he will repay them as best he can.

 

“You're an adventurer, yes? You must tell me of some of your travels!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch1 now edited! Thanks to Wistala for the beta!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch2 Coming to Terms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not my characters or my world, just a sandbox I wish to play in <3 I've managed to make enough of a buffer with my written chapters that I feel confident posting this second chapter, and feel like I'll be able to keep writing and keep my motivation.
> 
> Super thanks to my IG friend Echo for reading this as I'm writing it and for her commentary that keeps me going! <3

CH2

 

 

_The feel of petal soft leaves under my hands. Franticness. What happened here? The pull of the Echo, pulling, dragging me into Noraxia's memories. Minfilia. She was worried for me?_

 

_Shots. Screams. The sounds of fighting coming from another room. So many shots. So many screams. So many._

 

_The screams. They echo even through the thick wooden door._

 

_Out in the hall. The Echo. It's taking me to see what's happening. No. Cut down. Surrendering and being killed anyways._

 

_Garleans. HOW DID THEY FIND US??_

 

_DON'T KILL THEM._

 

_I learned tricks to fix my armor from her. That one told me of beautiful sights he'd seen in La Noscea, and how he wanted to travel all of Hydaelen. She always had battle tips to share for newcomers._

 

_The blood. So much blood. Rivers of it running through the cracks of the stone floor._

 

_Minfilia. A message for Noraxia? Safety at the Church of Adama. Hide. Stay safe. The screams. How are there still so many._

 

_They come for Minfilia now._

 

_THEY'RE HERE FOR ME._

 

_I'm the one they want. All that blood. My fault. My fault. Screams. They're echoing. There's so many._

 

_All my fault. My fault. My fault. The screams-_

 

M'aila wakes, gasping, heart racing and mouth dry. Tears are streaming down her face as she gasps for air that isn't there, gulping the cold Coerthan air in harsh, ragged breaths.

 

She's in a bed. Alone. It's a strange room. Where is she? What happened? Did the Garleans find her?

 

No, wait. Those are her saddlebags in the corner. Not the Garleans. Alphinaud found me. We found Cid. Coerthas. Camp Dragonhead.

 

Lord Haurchefant, he gave me this room to stay in until we get an answer about the Enterprise.

 

Her breaths are still ragged, slicing through the silence of the room. Her heart is still in her throat, bearing relentlessly fast even as a wave of exhaustion and relief washes through her and she sinks further into the downy softness of her borrowed bed. The tears won't stop. So many dead. All because of her.

 

The gods only know how long she lays there, but despite the warmth under the heavy covers, her skin has dried and chilled by the time she manages to calm herself. It's hopeless to try to get back to sleep. It's been almost a moon since she found Noraxia crumpled and dying in the Antecedent's office and still the dreams haunt her with the deaths of those she had known as friends and comrades.

 

Knowing that she won't get anymore rest, she resolves to at the very least get an early start to the day. Maybe some work at the training dummies or some hunting outside the camp will help push it out of her mind.

 

She climbs out of the warm, soft bed, hissing slightly at the cold air. Her morning routine is quickly done, rushing through it to be able to climb into the warmer set of clothes all that much sooner.

 

A pause. Her new Soul Crystal sits glimmering in a light all its own from were she had set it next to her bow and newly obtained harp. Pukno Poki seems to think she has the makings of a great Bard in her. She has her own doubts on that matter, but who is she to naysay a moogle.

 

It's a bit unnerving, wearing the Soul Crystal. Memories of the bards of old, Jehantel had said. As much as the reasoning behind using it makes sense, it's still a bit odd to find herself with knowledge and skills that she'd never had before obtaining the crystal.

 

 _I should try to find a nice chain for it_ , she thinks idly, slipping the plain leather thong around her neck, and stuffing the crystal beneath her layers for the day. It doesn't feel any different to be wearing it, but she knows that the knowledge will come when she needs it.

 

Perhaps it's the influence of the crystal that makes her do it, but she picks up her small harp, a miniature version special made by an artist in Gridania, from the table even as she straps her quiver to her back. A quick looping knot through a series of holes at top to affix it to her belt, a useful suggestion from Jehantel to be able to carry it and not interfere with the sound of the instrument, and she has her bow in hand and is striding through her door, down the quiet hall and it into the snow.

 

It's still early yet, the morning guard change not yet occurred and most of the camp still in their beds. On a whim, she instead walks the top of the wall encircling the camp, eventually finding a small nook overlooking an unfrozen pond at the base of the wall.

 

Her miniature harp clinks when she sits with her back pressed to the cold unyielding stone, the tone almost musical in itself despite being muffled by the snow still lingering on her chosen seat. Her body moves through a muscle memory not her own and before she knows it, she's drawn her knees up to her chest and is strumming lightly, strong nails plucking easily on the thin metal wires.

 

A mournful requiem soon fills the thin air, brought first by thoughts of battles long past when bards were new and untested, and then of M'aila's own thoughts.

 

Of the fumbling sense of not knowing who she was anymore when she found herself facing yet another primal and taking them down single handedly. Of the Scions. Of the friends she had found before being thrust into battle with Ifrit. The feeling of belonging and being given a direction and a purpose for skills she hadn't realized were there.

 

Only to have them ripped from underneath her by the Garleans. The screams echoing through her ears, the blood running between the stones of the Waking Sands. All of her newfound friends and comrades dead by her indirect hand. By her not being there when she was needed. By her bringing the Empire's unwanted attention to them.

 

Her fingers play on, knowing the tune though she does not, even as she's lost in thought and tears stream fresh down her face once more as it comes to a gentle close.

 

Silence rings loud in the absence of song, the air still and reverent, birds yet silent even as the early light of dawn creeps across the snows.

 

“The priests at the church once told me that music was but one tool that people could use to heal from loss. I have never heard a finer requiem. I'm sure they have heard it too.”

 

She starts, harp clutched to her chest, as she only now sees Cid sitting next to her on the parapet. How long he's been sitting there, she couldn't say. She couldn't even say how long _she's_ been sitting here.

 

Cid isn't even looking at her. Hands dangling loosely between his legs, his back is angled partially towards her as his head is tilted back to gaze up at the early morning sky. “They never could give me an answer to how long the dreams would last.”

 

“I'm sorry if it woke you.” There's no point to her denying that she's still having nightmares. They've spent too much time on the road together to try to pretend. Not when she knows Cid is also being visited in his dreams by things he would rather were still forgotten.

 

“You didn't.”

 

They sit together in silence, not even stirring when the guards walk past them during a shift change. She sees and registers it when he stands, but still jumps slightly again when Cid clasps a heavy hand on her shoulder, the heavy weight spreading and sinking through her bones comfortingly.

 

“We're here for you, lass. Don't let it consume you.”

 

And then she's left alone in the cold again, idly plucking at the strings of her harp as her mind ribs in endless circles.

 

Lord Haurchefant climbs the stairs onto the wall some unknown time later, stopping right in front of her. “My men tell me you have been out here for hours. Since well before the dawn if they are to be believed.”

 

The thought brings her back to herself abruptly, and she looks up at him with a wry twist to her face. In the back of her thoughts she notices just how much she has to strain her neck to do so. Why must all Elezen be so tall? M'aila is fully aware that she's ridiculously tall for a Miqo'te, but he easily stands head and shoulders above her.

 

“My apologies, Lord Haurchefant. I didn't think to ask if it was alright to be up here.”

 

She twists to get up from her seat, only to receive sharp stabbing pains running through her feet and legs at the movement. The moment her back leaves the wall, she's also struck by her a wave of intense cold, as if the stone has sucked all the warmth out of her.

 

She does her best to bite down on her hiss of pain, but her ears flatten back to her skull even as she aborts the attempt to stand. A wave of shivers take over her slight frame, suddenly aware of how cold she's gotten but unable to make a guess for how long she's been up here.

 

She grudgingly accepts the hand held out in offer, Lord Haurchefant pulling her to her feet with simple ease. This time her hiss does escape between her clenched teeth, as her numb feet start screaming at the sudden feeling of weight being set upon them.

 

He smiles teasingly at her, even as he loops her arm through his and starts walking, pulling, her back the way they both came. “I've heard tell of adventurer's having an iron constitution, but I almost expected to find a statue of ice when Janneloix came to tell me you were still sitting up here and hadn't moved for some bells. Full glad am I to find that is not so!”

 

What does one say to that? How to respond to the concern of one who is little more than a stranger, surprisingly friendly though he may be? “I needed some air to clear my head. I didn't mean to make anyone worry.”

 

For a mercy he doesn't immediately say anything else, seemingly content to walk with her through his camp in some strange, twisted parody of the courting couples she's glimpsed walking through Hustings Strip in the upper echelons of Ul'dah.

 

The eyes of his men follow them as they walk past the aetheryte and down towards the northern half of the camp. She can almost fancy that she can feel the gazes burning into her frozen back.

 

He brings her to a door across from where she now knows the fort’s dining hall is. She barely makes it through the door before she finds herself being led to a bench that's been pushed as close as possible to the open flames of a large hearth.

 

A massive wrought iron cooking pot hangs on a hook over the flames, leaving her to assume that this is then the kitchen.  A woman comes over, the same that was dishing out food to the others in the hall last night, and presses a large, steaming cup of liquid into her hands.

 

“Thank you Medguistal.”

 

“Aye, my Lord. She'll not be the last outsider to nearly freeze themselves out there, and she likely won't be the last”. She returns again, placing a large bowl of stew, the same as last night's fare, on M'aila's lap, the heat as scalding as dragon fire on her chilled legs.

 

“Thank you.” What else is there to say? She's overcome with shame, that this is the first impression she's giving to these people. A foolish outsider that doesn't have enough sense to know when to come in out of the cold.

 

“Your best thanks would be to not do it again, girl” Medguistal says, rapping M'aila's knee with her ladle ungently. “Now drink, warm yourself back up.”

 

To Haurchefant's great relief, she complies. She seems quieter today, if that's even possible. He barely heard her speak at all the previous day, despite his attempts to draw her into conversation over dinner. Young master Alphinaud seemed content to do all the talking, and she to let him.

 

But this morning she seems barely a shade of the purpose driven adventurer that strode so confidently into his office. Her thoughts must be heavy indeed for her to be driven to such lengths to escape them.

 

“I see you've a bow. You're an archer then?” He's picked his timing with care, and purposely waited until she starts digging into the stew to speak. He's no desire to lose a guest to the cold, and would draw her out of her thoughts if he can manage it.

 

There's a long pause as she chews, nodding slightly at his question. “Trained in the Archers Guild in Gridania.”

 

“You fight alone, then? Forgive me for saying so, but your companions hardly seem equipped to fight with you.”

 

No smile, but the crinkle of her eyes betrays her amusement. “They aren't. Well, Alphinaud might yet surprise me, but Cid is most definitely not. I can hold my own against most, but Dino usually fights with me.”

 

“Dino?”

 

“My chocobo.”

 

“Aaaah! How splendid! I was not aware the other nations trained war chocobos! I shall have to watch you fight!” A wide excited grin has taken over as he speaks. “The differences in training would be splendid to see first hand!”

 

“Oh!! No! No, he's not a war chocobo or anything like that! He just started keeping watch and then fighting with me, and then the trainer's at Bentbranch Meadows noticed, and they showed him some things, and he ...” her mouth snaps shut, a blush taking over her face as she realizes she was rambling.

 

It's a shame, he thinks. It's the most words he's heard from her this whole time, and the most animated he's seen her, and he finds himself wanting to see more. “I would be even more honoured to see the two of you fight together then! Aaaah, how strong your bond must be for him to take up arms in your defense!” A pause, then “In fact, I had meant to ask a small favor of you, and that _would_ make it all the sweeter on my end.”

 

She finally meets his gaze directly, an inquisitive expression forming as one of her ears perks forward in his direction. “Oh?”

 

He's struck momentarily by her eyes this close, and with the fire of the hearth so close and so bright. They're a bright, brilliant green, split by a vertical pupil that's rimmed in the faintest ring of gold, and framed by short thick lashes. They put him in mind of the spring leaves that he hasn't seen in so many years, with the cold overtaking his home so thoroughly. He shameless about admiring them as he speaks, glad to have her full attention for this moment.

 

“We've some new recruits, freshly arrived from Ishgard now that they've earned their shields. They must be tested! I suspect they have been lax in their training, and I would know their weaknesses so we can fill them.”

 

Her head tilts to the side in an unasked question, earrings swaying slightly and glinting in the firelight.

 

“What better way to test one's mettle than against an unexpected opponent? You adventurers are known to travel far and wide. You'll have skills and techniques that we don't often see here in Ishgard. Even more so if your chocobo fights with no formal training as a war mount!”

 

The excitement at the prospect is all but radiating out from him, and loathe as she is to disappoint, she has to.

 

“I can do it, but I was hoping to let Dino rest for a few days. He misstepped in the snow on our way here, and he's still limping from it.”

 

While still brimming with excitement, his smile shifts to something softer, though she has no idea what she said to make it so. “But of course! We must take care of our feathered friends. Another time perhaps then, it would not be a fair match to put a lone archer against sword and shield, no matter their training.”

 

Something sharpens in her eyes, and her back straightens into something much stiffer than the relaxed posture she'd been shifting into as they spoke. Now she's the one holding his gaze in place, and he's too surprised by her sudden change in demeanor to correct what was mistakenly taken as a challenge.

 

“I've beaten worse odds. I can do it, even without Dino.” How can it be any worse than fighting Ifrit and Titan on her own? After facing them she'd be embarrassed to be beaten by a cocky new recruit. She'll need to be careful to stay at arm's length though. Those shields they carry on their backs look heavy, and she knows from experience her leather doesn't hold against direct blows.

 

“Splendid!” Haurchefant springs up from the bench in a flurry of movement, arms spread in delight as he turns to face her once more. “I shall speak with Ser Patrifort and let him know of the change! Tell me, how do you prefer to warm up? Do you-”

 

A pointed cough sounds from behind Haurchefant, interrupting him from what he was going to say. She's not sure what he intended, but M'aila's fairly sure it's for the best that he _was_ interrupted. At present Haurchefant's height is preventing her from seeing who it is, but that mystery is quickly solved when he turns to see who it is.

 

“Ah, Corentiaux. Is something amiss?”

 

M'aila is sure now that he must be the Lord's manservant. His expression is far too full of resignation to be anything else.

 

“A messenger from Whitebrim, my Lord.” His statement is short and clipped, yet even though he isn't looking at her, M'aila gets the unmistakable feeling of being scowled at. She rises, setting her now empty bowl aside on the bench as she does so, determined not to be looked down upon despite him being of a comparable height to his master.

 

Haurchefant's shoulders droop dramatically, before he turns back to M'aila. “Duty calls, I'm afraid. Please, rest here awhile before you go out again.” He bows deeply, flashing a smile as he does so. “Should you need anything _,_ please, find me. Anything at all.”

 

And then he's gone, striding out into the cold on those long legs of his, Corentiaux following on his heels.

 

M'aila, to her credit, does try to rest. A second mug of tea manages to chase off the last of the chill, but after that she just starts itching to do _something_. Maybe go out hunting like she'd initially planned? Or maybe make use of those training dummies she saw against the wall. No, tomorrow's fight will be all the sweeter if they don't know what to expect.

 

She needs to train though. Needs to get stronger. And do it fast. The Garleans are looking for her, and it's only a matter of time until they find her. She needs to get strong enough to defeat them and avenge the Scions.

 

She gets up, intending to go hunting and burn off some energy, only to have a short Hyur woman step into her path, arms crossed over her chest. She's an older woman, back bent with age, white hair hanging loose behind her back, with spectacles perched on her nose and a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. And a very displeased frown on her face.

 

“And where do you think you're going?” M'aila barely opens her mouth to respond but the woman’s steely grey eyes tell her she won’t be listened to anyways. Even without her saying, it’s obvious this woman is a healer, and she is not impressed with M’aila.

 

“Outside again, I’d wager. Well, we won’t have any of that, girl. I’ve no doubt why that boy didn’t bring you to me right away, but I’ll not have you escaping just yet.” A bony hand with a surprisingly strong grip lands on M’aila’s shoulder and steers her away from the hearth and up a short flight of stairs that she hadn’t seen when coming in.

 

She's lead to an infirmary bed, despite protestations that really, she's fine, and made to sit on the edge of a bed while the woman sets about casting a spell. It's different from what she's used to seeing, the words and method strange, but apparently effective nonetheless as she feels a low level conjury spell wash over her.

 

The woman hmms and tsks under her breath. “Boots off. And then I'll be seeing your hands.”

 

Already she can tell she'll be stuck here at the whims of this woman until she's satisfied, so she sets about removing her boots as quickly as she can.

 

It's not until much, much later in the day that the healer allows her to leave, mystified by the lack of any sign of frostbite when by all rights her patient should at the very least have had a few frozen toes.

 

M'aila, for her part, is down the stairs and for the door as fast as she can shove her feet back into her boots and her arms into her coat. If this was Gridania, perhaps she wouldn't even have waited for the boots.

 

 _That'll be another mark for Y'shtola's theory on the Echo giving me resistance to the elements_ , she thinks wryly. _She'll be happy to hear it at least. If she's alive._

 

“I see you've been released from mother's care. A word before you go?” Medguistal has caught her with her hand on the door. She turns, looking to the cook, and grudgingly leaves the door behind at the woman's beckoning motion.

 

Medguistal is bent over the cauldron on the fire, seemingly ignoring M'aila's presence even as she speaks in a tone just above a whisper.

 

“He likely didn't think to warn you, but you are an outsider and likely do not know. Have care what you do here. Sitting on the wall getting lost in thought might be innocent enough down in the southern lands, but it's far too easy here for a watcher of the Holy See to think you a friend of the heretics, watching for a signal or gathering information on the fort. House Fortemps has ever been welcoming of outsiders, and Lord Haurchefant especially so, to the contrary of the See's preference. Please, take care not to attract their ire.”

 

She says this with an even tone, making busy over the cauldron of soup as she does, but the underlying tension in her voice is plain enough to M'aila's ears.

 

She stands, loudly banging her ladle against the pot's rim to clean it. She speaks again, surprisingly loud after her previous whisper.

 

“If you're looking to fill your time while you're here, I won't turn down extra meat for my stores. The karakul have gone feral since the snows came and the ranchers fled to the city. They could use some culling.”

 

“The sheep?” Well, it wouldn't be the first time she's been asked to do errand work or to help cull local fauna, she supposes.

 

“Aye. Ornery little things, and even worse now they're left to roam free without their handlers. But the meats good eating, and the wool just as usable for all the lack of shearing. The merchant what keeps his stall in the courtyard takes what parts we don't use.”

 

She pauses, looking up from where she's moved to her chopping board to make sure she still has M'aila's attention. “Don't bother dressing them out there, we can do it here. Just let me know when you have them and I can open up the shed out back for you.”

 

M'aila waits a moment, unsure if Medguistal has more yet to say in the way of instructions, but is waved off with the distracted flap of a hand. Not wanting to linger any longer than she already has, she's slipping out the doors just as the Cook's knife resumes chopping.

 

This is looking better already, with something to keep her busy and useful being dropped in her lap like that. The warning is something to think over though. Are they truly that on edge here?

 

She mulls it over as she crosses the courtyard, intending to check on Dino before trying some hunting before the sun sets. The days idleness itches under her skin like too much pent up aether, and a good hunt seems like just the thing to let it loose

 

“M'aila! There you are!”

 

Turning, she sees Alphinaud crossing the snow covered ground towards her. A simple cock of her head conveys her question of what it is he needs her for.

 

“I've been looking all over for you! You're certainly not an easy woman to find. Where have you been?” Indeed, his cheeks and the tips of his ears are a rosy red. It's obvious he's been out in the cold for some time now.

 

A non-committal shrug is all she'll give him for that. If he doesn't know that she was being held hostage by a healer for interrogation, far be it for her to be the one to inform him of such. Beyond saving her pride, the slightly baffled look that flits over his face is amusement enough to make her keep her silence.

 

He leads her back towards the outer staircase leading to the second floor of the camp's sole freestanding building. There he leads her past what is apparently Lord Haurchefant's own chambers, past her own temporary room, and into the second room past that. Cid is already sitting at the small table there, but she recognizes the pack at the foot of the bed as that belong to Alphinaud.

 

“I believe we should start building preliminary plans on how best to approach Garuda once we have located the Enterprise.” He ushers her in and directs her to take a seat, but notably leaves the door ajar when he comes to claim a perch on the stone sill.

 

“Cid tells me he is still unable to remember much about the Enterprise, but mayhap you can tell us of your experiences with the Ixal and what we might expect from them in the way of resistance…..”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> M'aila makes good on an agreement, and maybe gets some satisfaction out of it as a well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which bigotry gets its own, and the author discovers that action can maybe be fun to write.
> 
> Seriously, I had fun with this one. Maybe we'll see more action later on too, we'll see how the flow goes. 
> 
> Not much of an update schedule going on, but but I do have a bit of a buffer building up, and I promised myself that I'd post another chapter when is finished the next one in the buffer, so here you go!!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

**CH3**

  
  


Another morning comes with the Warrior of Light once more awake to watch the dawn's light creep across the snow. The past few days at Camp Dragonhead have come and gone with an idle stillness to them, with naught much more than a few slain sheep adding to the camp's larder and a stray gobbue wandering through the camp.

 

Which makes her doubly glad that today is the day that Haurchefant has chosen to test his new recruits. The inaction has been enough to set M'aila's skin crawling with the need to do  _ something _ . 

 

Attempts to occupy herself this morning with some idle target practice are quickly souring into a low burning anger, however. 

 

While most of the soldiers and knights of Camp Dragonhead have been content to more or less ignore her presence, there's a small group of younger Elezen in the camp that have taken to whispering crude jeers and comments about her person amongst themselves. 

 

Whether they know that her hearing is keen enough to catch those whispers is unknown, but their repeated jeers makes her want to take action against the askers. Unfortunately,that would surely send Alphinaud into yet another lecture on proper diplomatic behavior, alongside being poor repayment for Lord Haurchefant's hospitality.

 

“Do you suppose that's how she convinced Greystone to let them stay in the keep? Everyone knows he's ridiculously fond of outsiders, she's probably been in his bed all along.” The more vocal one of the group asks his comrade, and she decides then and there to take matters into her own hands, diplomacy be damned. 

 

It wouldn't be the first set of insults she's had to ignore, disparaging comments have been following her ever since they reached the Observatorium and even more so with these three since reaching Camp Dragonhead, but for them to mock their own commander like that? If they never learned respect in the cradle, she'll teach it to them now 

 

Hitching her bow onto her back, she turns around only to see Haurchefant himself striding towards her from the keep. The vile little group of wormkin, she sees in the corner of her eyes, are now being herded by an angry looking Ser Patrifort, filling her with a spiteful satisfaction. Good, someone else overheard them. The lesson might be better coming from a superior anyways.

 

Glad that they're being dealt with, she hitches her bow onto her back and meets Haurchefant halfway. 

 

“Aaaaah how splendid! You are ready then?” He casts an appraising glance up and down her figure, and if his gaze lingers over the length of her legs and the curve of her waist she doesn't notice over her lingering indignation.

 

He turns toward the western wall of the camp, restraining himself from placing a guiding hand on the small of her back. “You are certain you'll be fine on your own?” 

 

Her earlier anticipation of a fight returns in a rush, and her determined nod has his eyes shining in excitement. The sheer confidence she has in her abilities is thrilling and splendid in its brilliance.

 

“You will find Ser Patrifort and our newest recruits on the other side of the wall here.” His arm sweeps out in a broad gesture, leading her gaze past the wide gap in the wall that leads out to yet more snow covered highlands.

 

She parts ways with him as he climbs the stairs towards the top of the wall. The area he's indicated is easy enough to find, she's seen others sparring there often enough to know to look there first. 

 

Ser Patrifort and three others are indeed waiting there, with the older knight addressing the three men standing in front of him. The first to see her approach, he breaks off from them to speak with her before they begin.

 

“You truly are fighting alone then? I had not thought to believe my lord when he shared his concern.”

 

It takes everything she has not to roll her eyes. She's well aware that  _ most _ archers are ill suited to solo combat, needing someone to fight with them so they can keep their distance. While that is in fact her preferred method, she'll just need to prove to these Ishgardians that she can actually hold her own. 

 

“Well, if you insist. I look forward to seeing how the Warrior of Light handles herself.” Her startled grimace at his knowledge of her title doesn't go unnoticed. She'd made a point  _ not _ to introduce herself as such, uneasy with the reverence and expectations that seems to always come with it. She's nothing near as grand as a Warrior of Light. She's just been in the wrong place at the right time, and lucky enough to have survived it.

 

“Ah, I had wondered why my lord hadn't mentioned it. I merely happened to overhear your companions speaking amongst themselves.” There's a pause before he continues. “I would like to even the odds by setting all three against you. No objections, yes?” 

 

She nearly stumbles under the unexpected blow when he claps her back in response to her nod. “Good! Then let us-”

 

“-an't believe he sent his pet to fight for him.”

 

“The bastard couldn't even be bothered to do it himself.” Muttering has risen up behind them, and she recognizes the voices of just who she'll be fighting. Her previous anger returns in a rush, the tip of her tail thumping against her leg and scattering the snow that's accumulated on her boots. They don't seem much older than she is, but they're acting like spoiled little whelps.

 

She's not the only one to have heard them this time. Ser Patrifort's genial expression slides off his face into a frown as he turns slowly to pin the younger man with a hard gaze.  “Care to repeat that Vainfort?”

 

The wind whistles through the silence, and it's with a vindictive joy that M'aila watches them shuffle uncomfortably at being caught.

 

“I thought not.” He pauses before raising his voice in a pointed manner. “No killing, no maiming. Trial ends when either she or the three of you are down and can't continue the fight.”

 

He turns to start putting distance between himself and the combatants. Another clap on the shoulder as he passes and she's more prepared for it this time, managing to keep her ground.

 

“Don't hold back. The dragons won't, and they could clearly use that lesson.” His words are plain enough, but between them she hears permission being given.

 

A small clatter sounds behind her as weapons are hoisted and armor shifts. Her bow comes to her hand as she turns, other hand hovering in unknown instinct over her harp. 

 

“Do the kittens want to play? Or shall we take them to bed?” She savors their look of surprise briefly as she echoes some of their earliest comments back at them, and a feral feeling rises up in her as she looks her opponents up and down, baring her teeth in challenge as her ears flatten out. 

 

The beginning of a requiem fills the air, a faint purple glow encompassing her fingers as she redirects the aether around her. The glow spreads from her harp and to her bow, the ambient aether around her reacting to the music.

 

She takes full advantage of their laughing distraction to make the first blow.

 

****

 

Neither of them look pleased. Though he can't hear what is being said, it doesn't take much for him to know the meaning. These three are fresh from Ishgard, and newly sworn to House Fortemps. They've likely absorbed all the rumors and gossip that floats through those lofty stone halls.

 

It wouldn't be the first time he's had to dispel that way of thinking, the circumstances of his birth having laid the perfect foundation for such. He's lucky to have won the loyalty of men like Corentiaux and Ser Patrifort, that he can trust in them not to stand for it.

 

Her displeasure is easy enough to guess as well. Ishgard has no love for outsiders, with House Fortemps being the notable exception. And while he is unfamiliar with the social circles these three come from, he can't imagine the rumor mongers have become any more pleasant since the last time he spent any time in the parlor rooms of the high houses. It has been over a decade, but time has likely done nothing to soften their bite.

 

When last he spent any time amongst the socialites, something done primarily to keep watch over House Fortemps’ youngest son, he had been treated to rumour claiming the See had been collecting children from the Brume and from the other races of Eorzea and training them to “see to the clergy's needs”. It hadn't taken much for him to discern that particular meaning, and even less for him to swiftly remove himself and Emmanelain from the place that would spread such vile rumors and falsehoods. He'd never been back, and strongly recommended their father never to allow Emmanelain’s return.

 

No, he can guess easily enough the cause of M'aila's anger. And is ever thankful that Halone has blessed him with a training master that won't stand for any of that behaviour either.

 

Is that … music? It's brief, and ends before he can catch what it is, but his attention is swiftly caught elsewhere as she leaps into action. Leaps backwards in fact, loosing three arrows in quick succession. It's hard for his eyes to catch, but they appear to take on a purple glow before the strike, one to each of her opponents. 

 

She's quite agile, nimbly dodging their swords before jumping backwards again and loosing another round of shots, these seemingly taking on a bluish tinge. Is this some sort of spellcraft? It's like nothing he's seen before. 

 

Arrows flash red and orange, streaking towards her chosen target, some landing and some being deflected. Some land, some don't, but he's disappointed in how long it takes the other two to realize they should close in and provide cover with their shields.

 

She's gained some ground and distance from them now, standing on a mound of bare stone not yet covered in snow. He can clearly see now that  _ she _ is the source of the music, fingers strumming a short tune on the harp that he hadn't noticed previously as her other hand holds both bow and nocked arrow at the ready.

 

The last note hasn't even faded before a long clear note is sung into the air, the arrow flying from her bow taking on a golden hue. Was it only one she shot? Shafts fly, duplicating and filling the air in front of her as if shot from a legion of bows instead of that of a sole archer. 

 

His newest recruits are wholly unprepared, bringing their shields up too late to fully block the sudden onslaught. And then she's darting into the fray, bow swinging wide and knocking one to the ground even as a hidden blade slices at the leather straps holding armor to the wearers bodies.

 

A lucky blow lands and she's sent rolling through the snow. She's quicker to return to her feet than the other, though she kneels for a moment to clutch at her side and gather herself, tail raised high and lashing violently at the air.

 

Something changes after that, M'aila becoming more aggressive in her attacks, dodging their swords and leaping out of reach again and again with a frequency that would leave any of his most seasoned soldiers gasping for air.

 

“I had wondered if she was toying with them.” Haurchefant's gaze is torn from the riveting scene in front of him, startled by the sudden appearance of the young Elezen at his side.

 

“My apologies, Lord Haurchefant. I had heard that there was to be a contest, and desired to see such with my own eyes.” He bows, stiff and formal, before turning back to resume watching.  “I haven't yet had a chance to see her fight in earnest. Yet from all I have heard of the Eikon Slayer’s prowess, I'm surprised that those three are still standing.”

 

The Eikon Slayer? She's …. His gaze turns back to M'aila, lithe form dancing with ease amidst the thick snow despite being surrounded. He'd known the individual rumoured to be slaying eikons in the south was a woman, but all he'd heard had had him in mind of one of Ishgard's Lady Knights, tall and stately in gleaming armor, or of one of those roegadyn that he's heard so much of. Shorter in stature and possessed of a significantly quieter and more unassuming nature than most of his knights, he had never suspected that the eikon slayer was walking amongst his camp.

 

Watching her fight, the new knowledge takes his breath away 

 

Chains appear from nowhere, crawling and twining up the legs of one of her opponents, while a flash of red and black sends another flat on his back in the snow. The one still standing charges, heedless to her arrow glowing brightly orange, shifting to a red mere seconds before duplicating itself on the air, shafts finding purchase in all the soft, unguarded spots of the man's armor.

 

His eyes trace her form through the action, heart beating in his throat. She's truly the Warrior of Light he's heard so much about? In the days since her arrival, she’d never even hinted at something like that.

 

The one man still in the snow has yet to rise, and chains still hold the second despite his valiant struggles to free himself. M'aila swiftly sends the third to his knees, holding a nocked arrow to his breastplate as she demands surrender. Ser Patrifort calls a halt mere seconds before the second man's chains burst into aether and dissolve out of view.

 

She's ended it so quickly, standing straight and proud in the snow as his men stagger to their feet. He can already hear Ser Patrifort dressing them down for their poor form and lack of teamwork, but his eyes are riveted elsewhere as she turns fluidly on her heel and marches back towards camp. Her straight backed pride and the unrelenting confidence that he saw this morning fills his sight and he leans forward, elbows resting on the snow dusted crenellation as he watches her stride out of sight. 

 

The woman he has seen today is in direct opposition to the quiet, withdrawn person he has seen thus far. The empty, hollow eyes in his memory that stared unblinkingly out on the snows even as she clutched her harp like a lifeline leaves him with unease, even as he returns to find her waiting in front of his desk.

 

“What a splendid performance! Truly, you were an irresistible sight!”

 

There's no sign of that emptiness now, a flush high on her cheeks, furred ears standing as straight and proud as the line of her back. The look of satisfaction and the slight, barely there smile suits her infinitely better, he finds. 

 

“After watching you fight, I have realized that you are more like than not a woman of action. Doubtless you would rather take a more active role in the inquiries on your airship, yes?”

 

Her gaze sharpens in answer to that, her focus directly on him, and for a moment, he's not surprised that this woman is a slayer of gods.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author discovers she enjoys writing action .... and cusses Francel out for being stupid and for showing bravado at the worst time. 
> 
> Sorry this took so long everyone! As you can probably guess, I got sucked into Shadowbringers. IT'S SO GOOD OMG!! AAAAAAH I NEED TO PLAY IT ALL OVER AGAIN! lol and of course I'm getting ideas for how to do ShB in this fic even though I wasn't sure I would be writing it that far. I just ... ugh. it's so good. SO GOOD.   
> I'd promised myself though that I'd get this chapter out by the weekend. By the wire, but it's out! Hope you guys enjoy!

CH4

 

M'aila ducks behind the cover of a partial wall as yet another aevis emerges from the rubble. Dino presses against the stone beside her, chirring uneasily while he waits for her to lead them further on. What in the seven hells was he thinking? 

She waits until the dragon is turned before taking her shot, the soft fleshy spot under the wings a perfect target for a straight shot and a venomous bite. Dino, for all his fear of dragons and overall reluctance to fight them, leaps over the broken stone wall and charges the chosen target. 

A shouted warning barely has Dino getting out of the way of a blast of lightning, but he quickly bounces back. Strong legs ram a kick into the dragon's side, taloned foot cutting a gash into tender flesh even as a barrage of arrows fly into its side.

Soon enough it lies silent and unmoving on the snow. Dino is unhappy, but thankfully only a couple feathers are singed from the encounter.

Where in the hells are they? She had been returning from an unproductive trip to the Observatorium when she'd thought to stop by the Skyfire Locks and check on Lord Francel so she could bring Lord Haurchefant news of his friend's state. Instead she'd gotten a near frantic retainer. He'd been flustered and kept interrupting, but eventually she had gotten to the crux of the matter, a beloved lordling rushing off into a nest of dragons and not having been seen for almost a full day.

Why a man who by all accounts is not much of a fighter would take so few knights with him is beyond her. Matron forfend if she'll let him get himself killed on some silly quest though.

It's not exactly the relaxing trip she'd had in mind for Dino today, but his leg seems to be fine now and he's certainly earned a rest. That is, if she can ever find the damned men. There are certainly enough collapsed buildings in the area to provide ample cover, but her primary worry right now is that one could easily become trapped by that same cover if their luck turned sour.

Dino trills behind her, an alert sound, but not the one he typically uses to warn of danger. It still takes some searching, Dino pausing every now and then, quirking his head to the side to listen as he leads her into one dilapidated building out of the many in the area. It's with a heavy sigh of relief that she sees a knight tucked into the sole corner of the building that still has bits of roof clinging to it.

Her sword is out, hard eyes wary over a shield raised in expectation of an attack, but the pool of blood under her back leg and the way she's counting on the unstable wall to hold her up tell M'aila everything she needs to know. Even so, her shield stays up as M'aila approaches with Dino, and she's glad that at least one of Francel's men has some sense. Even if she's aiming that sword in the wrong direction.

“Good job, Dino. You found one of them. What a good boy.” She pets his creamy yellow feathers as she coos praises at him, hiding a tiny smile as he trills and preens in response. Digging through the saddlebags hanging on his flank, she eventually finds a handful of potions that she vaguely remembers tucking away. They're not a particularly strong one, but should still be enough.

“There's no point asking if you're alright, but here. It's just a potion, but it should help” She holds it out to the knight, who grudgingly accepts it. 

“… You're the adventurer my Lord Francel spoke of, aren't you?” She sounds exhausted, and as she gets closer M'aila can see that the chain of her armor is torn, a bloody gash on her side open to the cold air, and a tourniquet wrapped high on her leg to staunch the bleeding from another injury.

They must not get very many adventurers at all, miqo'te or not, if she's that distinctive. She nods even as she turns Dino's side to the injured woman. An attempt to help her onto the chocobo's back doesn't go well, but she ensures she at least has an arm securely looped over his neck before leading them out of the building. “What happened? Do you know where he is?”

She's silent for a moment, and M'aila takes advantage of that to scout ahead, waving Dino forward when the way is found clear. 

“They were so fast …. So strong. We were no match and I lost sight of him early on.”

“Where?”

M'aila makes note that even from here she can see that the area indicated is swarming with aevis. They'll have to make it a very quick trip back to Camp Dragonhead. This knight needs a chirurgeons help immediately, but if it isn't already, it's likely only a matter of time until it's too late for Francel.

The knight guesses her plan almost as soon as she starts leading Dino away from the dragon's nest. “No! Wait!” 

Dino squawks in surprise when the knight, struggling to gain her own footing again, slips in the snow and gets her arm tangled in his reins as she tries to disengage from him. “I'll be alright! Please! You have to find Lord Francel!”

“I'm not leaving you out here on your own.” Unsaid is that M'aila is no shield bearer. She won't be able to fight an aevis if she's also worrying about keeping an injured knight safe. Instead, she focuses on untangling the reins and freeing the two of them from the mess.

Pulling her sheathed sword from her belt, the knight proceeds to stand using it as a cane. She hobbles a few steps away from Dino, looking to Camp Dragonhead with a grim expression. “I'll be fine. Please. Find my lord before it's too late.”

Air escapes her lungs in a rush, sigh conveying all of M'aila's frustration and exasperation without a word being said. She brings Dino up to the knight, using his bulk to block her path and keep her from going too far. Gently, she pulls Dino's head down to eye level, staring into his glassy black eyes. “I want you to take her back to camp, ok? Make sure she's safe, and then come back to me as quickly as you can.”

He kwehs softly, feathers ruffling in uneasy concern as he stares back. “I'll be careful, I promise.” His eyes close happily as she softly pets the feathers between his eyes, a soft whistle telling her he's agreeing to do it even as good body language and ruffled feathers tell her it's only grudgingly.

Turning to the knight, she hands over the reins, mouth a grim line. “He'll make sure you make it there safe. Do you want to try mounting up again?”

The knight shakes her head, silent for the clenching of her teeth. Between her makeshift crutch and Dino, she's stable at least, and M'aila watches them for a time before she marches back up the slope towards the vigil.

Her progress into the ruins is slower now, M'aila taking much greater care to not attract attention and to only fight one dragon at a time. It's pure luck that has her stumbling across the other knights. 

Ducking behind one building in a hurry to avoid one particularly large aevis, has her nearly stumbling into her quarry. A single knight faces off against an aevis even as he stands guard in front of the still body of one of his comrades. He dodges it's bite well enough, but barely gets out of the way of it's lightning. All the while she can tell he's making an effort to stay between the dragon and the fallen knight, and she's suddenly glad that the lady knight she found is safe with Dino.

Neither knight nor dragon have noticed her presence yet, and that is something she can use to her advantage. Her options flash through her mind as she creeps closer.

The aetherial chains might be useful, but not very effective, since they fade as soon as they take damage. Maybe if she were to graze it's leg? Yes, that would work. 

She makes her way silently to the side of the two combatants, giving herself a clear view of the dragon's powerful legs. Two arrows fly in quick succession, striking just above the knee. For a brief second, the massive scalekin buckles as aether masses around it's legs, weighing it down and slowing its movement. 

While it does manage to keep standing, M'aila is still satisfied to see the aether holding form. A quick tune fills the air even as she jumps out of path of a lightning strike, directing the aether in the area to bolster confidence and to help guide her arrows and the knight’s sword to strike true.

It's angry now, giving chase to its new assailant and momentarily forgetting about the knight behind it. A sequence of shots, first a wind bitten arrow, then a pair charged to sink deep and heavy into the target, keeps its attention long enough for the knight to approach and strike at its unguarded belly. Rearing back with a snarl of pain, it twists away from M'aila to swipe at the knight, claws meeting a battered, rose emblazoned shield with a sharp screech.

Its torn attention gives M'aila the perfect opening. A swirl of umbral aspected aether blackens the head of her nocked arrow. There's a pause as the dragon gathers it's lightning once more, focus solely on the knight that's just cut a gaping hole into its stomach.

She takes aim, red lines start to twist down the shaft of the arrow, leaving glowing streaks in the air as it flies from the riser of her bow to land in the tender flesh of the dragon's eye. Aether explodes outwards in a flash of red and black in a maneuver aptly named by Jehantel as “Misery's End”. Lightning sparka in its maw, then fades as the dragon falls to the ground still and silent.

The knight falls to his knees in a rush of movement, shield standing upright in the snow as the knight leans heavily against it. It's not until M'aila gets close enough to offer him a hand back up that she realizes just how close the knight had been to defeat before she came across the fight. 

Links in his chain mail are twisted and bent in multiple places, missing entirely where the rivets have simply broken under strain. His gambeson underneath singed by lightning and showing his tunic or injured flesh below that. 

“Well, I suppose you're no heretic if you're willing to kill one of these beasts. You've just saved my life, lass. Thank you.” His words have rough timber to them, and whether that's from exertion, pain, or just his normal pitch M'aila can't tell.

Nodding, she hands him of the potions she'd taken from her saddlebags and helps him stagger over to his fallen comrade. “Will you be alright?” He leans against the wall, chest still heaving and trying to catch his breath, but still waves off her concern. 

“I'm still standing, I'll survive. She needs more help at the moment, if you can. Blasted thing threw her against the wall, and I suspect her head took the hit.”

Knees sinking into the snow, a quick press of her fingers to the woman's neck tells her that she wasn't too late, at least. Air hisses between M'aila's lips as her fingers run through the woman's short cut hair. Sure enough, there's a large bump on the back of her head, and a sticky wetness among the strands. 

Washing her hands on the snow, M'aila curses under her breath as she considers her options. She'd never had any sort of aptitude for conjury, and moments like this make that lack all the more keenly felt. Unfortunately, she's limited to potions and luck. 

“Can you help hold her up? I'm no healer, but maybe we can at least stop the bleeding.” Digging out yet another potion from the large pouch on her hip she bites at the cork, the short, barely there point to her eye teeth sinking into the soft material and pulling it out with a satisfying pop. 

A roar sounds from somewhere off to her left, startling in the overall silence. The knight pauses in his task, all color washing from his face as he turns to look towards the sound. “No…”

The soul crystal’s instinct draws M'aila's hand to the harp resting at her hip, even as she slowly rises from her crouch. “What is it?”

“Lord Francel …” The knight all but drops his charge back into the snow, fumbling to his feet with all the grace of bone deep exhaustion. “We begged my lord to run. We were ambushed. It was as if they knew we were coming. He fled in that direction. We can't - we can't lose him!”

Nostrils flare in displeasure as her ears lay back against her skull. “Stay here. Watch over her.” Overly forceful, perhaps, but there's no time to be nice right now. Pressing the uncorked potion into his hand, she bounds to her feet and starts off at a jog towards the sound. “Try to get that down her throat!”

By the Twelve, of course he wouldn't be safe. Why would it ever be that simple? Running through the snow, she vaults herself over the obstructions in her path, fallen stone walls little more than an annoyance as she follows the sounds of an enraged dragon. 

She comes upon them just in time to see Lord Francel thrown against one such outcrop of stone, sword flying through the air to land yalms away from his reach. Instead of getting to his feet and gaining room to maneuver, the young man instead scurries backwards, pressing his back to the stone in an attempt to make himself a smaller target.

Hissing under her breath, M'aila swings her bow off her back, arrow barely making contact with the riser before it flies into the dragon's face. It only actually turns towards her when it feels the shift in the aether around it, harp singing of past victory against overwhelming foes. 

This aevis is significantly larger thanks any of the others she's fought yet, possibly the same one whose attention she had dodged recently. And significantly more aggressive and thickly skinned, she soon finds. Her arrows aren't penetrating as deeply as usual, and it's larger size means she has to do more running to stay out of its reach. 

An attempt to get close with her dagger has her blade skipping across its scales and her getting hit with its tail and tossed into a snowbank. Scrambling out of the deeper snow, she barely avoids its lightning, ducking behind a boulder just in time. Her fur and hair raise with a crackle of static as the electricity dissipates into the air.

She's starting to get winded, and thinking that maybe she and Francel should try to make a run for it, when an angry whistle sounds behind her. 

Dino careens past her, leaping up at the dragon in indignant fury that it would attack her. His talons manage to find purchase in the rough scales of its snout and in the brief moments before being knocked off, it's senses are filled with naught but the sight and sound of sharp talons and creamy yellow wings beating at its face.

At any other time the sight would have filled M'aila with amusement and a feeling of warmth at the knowledge that her dearest friend would charge a dragon in her defense. Currently all there is is overwhelming relief at the arrival of help. 

Outraged, the dragon finally turns it's focus away from M'aila, giving her a moment's respite and time to catch her breath. With Dino holding its attention as he delivers a scathing rebuke in the forms of angry sounding kwehs, squawks and whistles, leaping up to scratch and peck at it further, she's finally able to focus on the aether around her.

She almost regains its attention with the continuation of her previous song and aetheric weights to it's legs, but a well timed kick to its breastbone has it turning back to Dino with lightning sparking at its mouth. 

The fight continues in the same vein for quite some time, M'aila and Dino trading it's attention between themselves as they wear it down, dragon growing more agitated and impatient as time passes. Eventually they goad it enough that it lunges, jaws snapping at tail feathers even as a feathered leg whips upwards to land a kick in the fleshy underside of that same jaw. 

Dazed by the unexpected blow, it has no chance to dodge the barrage of orange hued arrows. Nor the blackened arrow that leaves an ominous red afterburn in the air behind it. The thud as it hits the ground echoes through her legs as she's showered in displaced snow. 

M'aila shuffles over to Dino, wary and weary after the long fight. Their opponent lies still in the snow, and the ruins around them are shockingly silent after the chaos. Whispering praises into the feathered ruff of her chocobo's neck, the crunch of snow under hesitant footsteps is mostly ignored until their owner speaks. She'd nearly forgotten about him during the fight, but she's glad he stayed out of the way and came out of it safely. 

“Words cannot express how deeply grateful I am for your intervention, but I will be forever in your debt my lady.” His voice is shaky with relief, and when M'aila turns to face him she sees that he's bent nearly double at the waist in a bow, hand held over his heart.

He comes out of his bow only to balk at the look of censure on her face.

“It - it was a foolish thing to do, I know. I had only hoped that we might salvage some of my family's good name by slaying a number of them. We lost so much when we yielded the Steel Vigil to the Horde, and our House has only fallen further since.”

He sighs heavily, shoulders sinking into his already slight frame. “I had hoped that slaying some few scalekin myself would help to disprove the abusive of heresy, but I fear now I have done naught to improve the situation.”

Much as she tries to think of something to say to that, nothing comes to mind. He has the right of it, but it's plain enough that to confirm that outright would only bring the young lord down further. A soft chirp from Dino, heavy head swinging to peer over her shoulder serves to break the silence.

The knight she had left behind her is limping towards them, the unconscious form of his companion slung over his back. 

“Ser Alvoix! Lady Ileanne! Thank Halone you are safe! What happened?” Concern tumbles from Lord Francel's lips even as he stumbles through the deep snow drifts towards his knights. Following at a slower pace, M'aila listens silently as the older knight, Alvoix, tells his Lord of the fight with the aevis, Ileanne's injury, and her own fortuitous arrival. 

“What? No! You’d almost defeated it!” The glance he gives her is grim, stopping any further protest before it forms.

“Ay ….. Perhaps I may yet have defeated the beast. But I would have ventured to the Fury's halls even as I did. You saved my life, miss.”

The straightforward praise is startling, and the blunt acknowledgement of his potential death even moreso. Lord Francel thankfully steps forward and distracts from her astonishment. “If your bird is willing to help bear the weight, we may yet save another as well.”

Dino trills in agreement before M'aila even has the chance to ask him. Before long, Dino has a silent passenger on his back, one person on each side of him to keep them balanced. 

M’aila leads the small procession through the snow and ruined buildings, careful to skirt around any aevis they might come across. During the trek, Francel inquires whether she's discovered another one of his knights in the area. His obvious relief in the knowledge that she is now safely in Camp Dragonhead only reinforces her thought that it's no wonder his people cared so deeply about his safety, when he cares so deeply about theirs.

Coming around the last corner, Camp Dragonhead comes into view. They approach and enter with no commotion, bringing Dino and his passenger directly to Meduil, standing outside her daughter's kitchen, arms folded into her shawl and waiting for them to arrive. 

Her already furrowed brow grows deeper into her face as they approach, and she marches forward to meet them before the door. “What happened?”

Lord Francel starts explaining to her the events of the day while M'aila helps Ser Alvoix pull Meduil's newest charge off of Dino's back. Alvoix once more drapes her across his own back, looping his arms under her legs, and starts resolutely marching into the building that houses the camp's infirmary.

A quick glance at M'aila only shows Meduil a flush high on the miqo'te's cheeks from the cold and an apparent lack of injuries. While the adventurer has thus far demonstrated a remarkable resilience to the cold, Meduil is reminded far too strongly of the numerous young, headstrong soldiers wont to ignore signs of injury only to be brought to her later in dire need. “The both of you, upstairs and pick a seat. I'll see to you two after the others.”

Francel dutifully follows Meduil inside, offering neither comment nor resistance to the woman's orders. Dino kwehs dolefully when M'aila steps away from his side. She turns back to him, patting his beak even as he nudges at her shoulder with his head. “I should be back soon, Dino. Go on, I'll meet you in the stables.” Pulling on the reins slightly, she turns him in that direction, patting his rump and urging him on. 

She's just coming onto the landing halfway up the stairs when there's a bang from the large doors to outside sitting in a hurry and rushing footsteps approaching behind her. M'aila turns just in time to see Haurchefant come to a stop at the foot of the stairs.

Stepping to the side to let him pass as he bounds up the stairs, she's shocked into stillness when he stops merely a few steps away from her and grasps her hands in his. His bare hands radiate warmth as they engulf hers, even through the leather of her gloves. The unexpected contact, and the sudden sight of him at eye level with her, made possible only with the aid of some few steps between them, is disarming enough that she nearly misses hearing him speak.

“You … you found him. Even though you had no obligation to do so, you …” He seems to go speechless for a moment, bright blue eyes holding her startled gaze. 

“You had no reason to do so. Any other would have brought word and let us search for him ourselves. And yet, you charged ahead with nary a word to us. You saved him, even with the danger to your own person. I …” he pauses again, seemingly unsure of how to continue. 

There's an emotion in his expressive face that she doesn't quite recognize, gratitude yes, but something else as well. A pointed cough rings out from the top of the stairs just as he opens his mouth to speak.

Meduil is there silently staring at them, white brow raised in a sharp arch telling everything she isn't saying. Haurchefant drops her hands and backs down a few steps in a sudden rush, mask dropping over his features as he bends deep at the waist in a bow. 

“Thank you, adventurer. Words cannot express the depth of my gratitude for your aid.” Straightening from the bow, his brow flickers a moment in indecision before he squares his shoulders and walks past her up the stairs, pointedly not glancing at Meduil as he passes her in search of Lord Francel. 

“Well? Up with you.” Meduil's dry voice startles M'aila into motion, still raised brow bringing a flush to her cheeks. 

Finding an empty spot to sit, she finds herself running her fingers along the palms of her hands, the feeling of another pair holding them lingering as a phantom sensation. Lost in contemplation over the unfamiliar warmth, she doesn't notice the wry looks Meduil sends in the camp commander’s direction when she catches M'aila still staring at her hands .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys have enjoyed this chapter! Look forward to more soon!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspicions are aired, and shields drawn in defense

 

 **CH5**  


 

In this instance, with no small number of draconian rosaries spilling over his desk and M'aila’s story of near every single one of the packages bound for Skyfire Lochs bearing heretical fruit echoing in his ears, Haurchefant Greystone takes no joy in having guessed correctly. 

 

He had hoped, for his dearest friend's sake,  that his suspicions were misplaced. The dread that the simple necklaces inspire, dragon's fangs tinted yellow with age strung on simple thread or leather thongs with crimson beads,  settles uneasily in his chest. The porters’ continued insistence that they had no knowledge of the charms presence rings hollow with such damning evidence. If they are truly innocent, there are precious few left to look at for the cause.  None of which he can bear the thought of suspecting. 

 

His continued silence only increases the porters’ very vocal protests, hands held with fingers intertwined in front of the tight line of his frown even as his index taps idly on the back of his gloved hand. 

 

A heavy sigh fails to escape his closed mouth.  There's one rosary in particular that holds his attention, fang burnished to a high sheen and surrounded by shining carnelian stones rather than the common glass that the rest bear. Fine golden links glimmer in the light of the room, draping delicately over his hand as he lifts it from the pile.

 

Despite what the necklace represents, he finds himself struck by the wonderful craftsmanship. _A rosary fit for the son of a High House._ And indeed, this particular one had been in a parcel clearly addressed to Francel himself. 

 

They're certainly not sparing any expense with this ruse. And if he's not swift enough, Francel will lose his life for it. Too exuberant with his investigations though, and he risks implicating himself as well. It's a balance as fine as the chain in his hand, and one he's undecided on how best to navigate. 

 

The porters are innocent, he's sure of it no matter how damning this appears. They're good, pious men, and there's been no reason to doubt them before now. But there are enough people in Ishgard clamoring for his replacement that he can't simply let them go on intuition alone. 

 

The porters have fallen silent, waiting on his decision. Casually tossing the rosary back onto the pile, he rises from his seat behind the heavy desk. Any intention to address the two in front of him fades as the doors to the outside are thrown open, M’aila running through them and around the large table occupying much of the space. 

 

Immediately she has his full attention. She'd only been asked to pass on the news of her discovery to Inquisitor Brigie. That she would come running back so soon, turned back ears telling a clear tale of her thoughts, is cause for alarm.  

 

No …. they wouldn't. They couldn't.  Not with Francel. _They absolutely would, Lord or no._

 

Inquisitor Guillaime has proven himself to be exceptionally fervent in his desire to wipe out the heretics threatening Ishgard. If he truly suspects Francel ….

 

His eyes scan the room, looking for the right individual. “Hourlinet!”

 

The man breaks away from his hushed conversation in the corner by the door. “My Lord?”

 

“Francel has been taken to Witchdrop for trial. Mere accusations are insufficient grounds for such a trial, and I will not stand idly by while an innocent man is sent to die.” Some small part of him is shouting that he's allowing his emotions to rule his decisions again, warning that if he's wrong he could well be sent off the edge of Witchdrop himself, but his near overwhelming concern for his dearest friend drowns it out. 

 

“There are some things here I must see to yet, but I would have you do whatever you can to stall that trial until I can join you and petition Inquisitor Guillaime to stay his hand.”

 

Hourlinet bows, back straight and narrow, before trotting swiftly out of the room. M’aila lingers a moment longer, uncertainty and concern filling her eyes. Haurchefant is fully aware of the risks that come with such a plan, but to see it echoed back to him so clearly warms something inside of him. 

 

“I know I've no right to ask this of you, my friend, but please. Help me save Francel one last time.” She seems taken aback by this,  and her continued silence brings the fear that she might refuse him this time. He can't find it in himself to blame her; as her young companion has taken to repeatedly and vocally reminding her, they did not come here to delve in Ishgardian politics. 

 

Her slow smile and gentle nod brings such a relief that he forgets the chill that had overtaken him at the news. “Thank you, my friend. Please, accompany Hourlinet and help delay the trial.”

 

She nods briskly, eyes sharpening to something more like a soldier readying for battle. _Dear Halone, let it not come to that._

 

Tearing his attention away from her retreating back, he waves forward the two that Hourlinet had been speaking with before turning to the porters. “My apologies gentlemen, it appears we shall have to continue our conversation another time. My men here will show you to a room until then. We will make sure your packages are kept safe from further tampering.”

 

The porters look resigned to being held in the camp, following the two soldiers sullenly. Assigning another to coordinate the movement of the freight and seeing to their chocobos takes little time, rushing out the door to speak to Brigie, even less. Slinging his shield onto his back, he pretends he doesn't see Corentiaux's disapproving frown. 

 

Inquisitor Brigie is simple enough to find, still at her typical place by the aetheryte. Still he finds himself wondering how the woman can stand to be outside all day. The new recruits gossip that she must have ice in her veins, but having worked alongside her he now knows it as merely gossip, no matter how much he still wonders at times. 

 

“I suppose you intend to join them on that fool's errand?” Her voice is dry and even more disappointed than Corentiaux's when he's done something particularly foolish. The fact that neither of them are making attempts to stop him says much of the trust they have in him. 

 

“He is a good, pious man and you know it as well as I.”

 

A long tense silence follows before she sighs, eyes closing in resignation. “Very well, I know naught I can do will stop you.” Just as he turns to go though she continues, her words causing him to pause on the steps. “Have care of your words and actions, Lord Haurchefant. Inquisitor Guillaime is not a man to take lightly. Nor will he easily accept your intentions.”

 

A solemn nod is all she receives before he rushes to the stables. The handlers must have had the wind blowing in their ears, bringing his already saddled bird out to meet him as he approaches the building. 

 

Hurried thanks are given even as he swings himself up on to the feathered back, taloned feet leaping forward into a run as soon as his weight settles in the saddle. Witchdrop may not be very far from the camp, but every second it takes him to get there is a second too long.  

 

The sounds of battle become clearer and clearer the closer he gets to Witchdrop. Brigie's warning rings loud in his ears, even as he sends silent thanks to Halone that he'd had the forethought to ask M'aila to accompany Hourlinet. 

 

Coming around the corner, he sees M'aila and Hourlinet fighting a knight with an unmarked shield, two others laying still in the snow. Beyond them, unnoticed by the others, two more are running to join the fray. 

 

Charging past M’aila and Hourlinet, he swings out of the saddle as he approaches the newcomers. “In the name of House Fortemps, I demand that you lay down your arms!”

 

No answer is given beyond weapons being drawn. Even as the spear clashes against his shield he hears the heretical words from the man behind him. “Ishgardian scum! Today you shall answer for your sins!”

 

Haurchefant whirls to face him, sword and shield working in tandem in a risky maneuver to trip his opponents into the snow. Heretics! In the Inquisitors guard?? How much have they been privy to? For how long?

 

“Behind you!” M'aila’s voice rings clear at a volume he hadn't realized she possessed, arrow streaking over his shoulder.  

 

“-disgrace your line, Lord Haurchefant!” The Inquisitor's words barely make it to his ears past the ringing running up his shield arm and through his bones. 

 

Did the inquisitor not hear that? No. It was clearly said, he couldn't have missed it. He's a wise man, likely he'll address the matter of his guard when there's time to focus on it.

 

While the man in front of him seems to be little more than a street brawler, punches and kicks swinging clear of Haurchefant with little effort on his part, his companion shows skill enough to suspect formal training. Enough to force him to pay attention to the man in front of him, rather than worry for his allies behind him.  

 

Blows are exchanged, most skimming off of armour, chain grating in the ears. The pike man is certainly skilled, he thinks, redirecting the spear's point even as he brings his shield in to block the butt that's flashing up from the ground. 

 

Skilled enough that he feels he should recognize the man, or perhaps knows the knight that trained him. If it weren't for the hooded masks, he might have an answer. 

 

“Come, let us not be strangers, friend! I would know who it is I have the honour of fighting!”

 

As much as his words are meant lightly and he truly would rather consider the man a comrade-in-arms, he's unsurprised to hear an angry snarl from behind the mask. As much as he's been expecting the man to lunge though, the boot striking the small of his back is wholly unexpected. 

 

Hand pressing to the cut on his side, he wastes no time building distance between them. That was stupid, dismissing the brawler entirely, and in the back of his head he hears Ser Patrifort barking at him for growing complacent.  

 

An arrow flies past him, exploding with blackened aether as it strikes the brawler in the knee, forcing him to the ground.  The lancer, staggering from the burst of light right next to him, doesn't see Haurchefant’s attack until it's too late. Whether he falls to his opponents blade or to the arrow that sprouts in his shoulder is uncertain, but the crimson staining the snow around him ensures that he won't be rejoining the battle. 

 

A feeling of lightness washes over him, air and light lifting the pain from his wound even as it knits together. Hourlinet arrives at his side a moment after it fades, M'aila quick on his heels. “My lord! Are you alright?” 

 

A quick glance behind them shows the heretical knight, face twisted with rage, struggling against chains shimmering with aether. Pale blue eyes narrow as he sees that the knight is in fact struggling to twist his hand towards a pouch on his belt. Eyes narrowing n suspicion, he nods absently in response to Hourlinet. Kneeling to wipe his blade clean in the snow, he misses the moment the chains release. 

 

M'aila's muttered curse, a short horn blast and the approaching beat of leathery wings tells him everything instead. “Save your energy my friends. You may need it yet.”

 

Two more men come running around the boulders bordering Witchdrop, one a mage by their robes and the other an axe. Behind and above their heads comes a wyvern, wickedly long and curved fangs bared in a rictus snarl as it sees their small group standing in defiance. 

 

Haurchefant hears the crunching of boots in snow, spinning to place himself between the knight and M'aila just in time. The ringing of the sword on his shield is as the toll of a bell, action bursting forth from the silence on its summons. Swords clash and shields are slammed into chainmail clad bodies as the two men fight. For all his determination to keep the knight away from M'aila and Hourlinet, the wyvern is determined to bring the fight to them, and he struggles to split his attention between all four opponents. 

 

“Haurchefant!” It's the first time M'aila's said his name, and if he weren't in battle he might savor the way it sounds from her mouth. A quick look behind him shows the reason his opponent has backed away, shield held close in defense. His breath catches strong heart behind him, arrow glowing black and pointed in his direction, slitted eyes fierce and unyielding even as the harsh Coerthan wind has whipped her long hair into something more resembling the aftermath of a lover's tumble. 

 

Behind her Hourlinet stands between the axe-bearer and the mage, a magical barrier the only thing preventing both magical and draconian fire from consuming him. An axe chips away at the barrier and bits of flame lick inside where it's broken through. 

 

“I can manage this one on my own” she nods her chin at the knight across from them, barely holding in a hiss at his dismissive sneer. “Hourlinet needs your help.”

 

Indecision ranks at him, his opponents strength enough that typically this would be a death sentence for any other archer. Even more so would it be if he were to leave her to contend with the other three on her own, her victories over eikons of myth not even coming to mind in that moment. Determination and confidence in her abilities shine bright in her face, naught but brief crinkles at the corners of her eyes showing her acknowledgement of his decision as he turns to leave her to the knight.

 

So focused on chipping away at the barrier is the marauder, that he never even sees Haurchefant coming. The man falls in a silent heap, cut down with his axe still lodged in the magical wall. A roar splits the air, flames dying from the wyvern’s gullet as it swoops over Hourlinet's curved barrier.

 

Talons scrape against the lacquer on Haurchefant’s shield, but he stands firm in the packed snow, not allowing it to break through his guard even as the air displaced by its leathery wings buffets him from above.

 

He's careful not to allow it the time or space to draw full breath, sword slashing at legs and wings, slicing into the deep bellied chest that he knows could end the fight here and now were it to get a chance to breathe fire once more. He's seen enough of his men brought back to camp unrecognizable through their burns to know what dragonfire does to a man. 

 

Song floats through the air, a brief glimpse of aether seen swirling around him. The effect is much like a spell he finds, though not one he's ever felt before. It's an odd effect, limbs feeling both lighter and stronger, and his blows seeming to land with more strength than he knows he is capable of. 

 

A lucky chance has him thrusting his shield up into the beasts jaw, sending it reeling backwards and allowing him a chance to slice at the wing. Leathery skin provides more resistance than the average heretic, but his sword still slices cleanly through the membrane as the dravanian howls in pain. A wordless shout sounds behind him, arrow lacing through the air with a faint purple after image left behind as it further pierces the membrane of the wyverns wing. 

 

Clawed wingtips sink into the snow as it pushes itself painfully to its feet, seeming no less daunting an enemy now that they're standing face to face. Another song sounding behind him brings to mind a tale from his childhood of valiant knights in battle against the horde, the thought bolstering him against the sight of his foe still standing strong, and M’aila is suddenly at his side, bow held high as she pulls another arrow to full draw. 

 

She fires even as the wyvern turns to flee, flight proving impossible for it as it settles for a gallop, injured wing held close to its flank. The air is tense as they watch it escape, waiting until they no longer hear it's ungainly crunching through the snow before they dismiss the beast from their minds for the time being. 

 

Inquisitor Guillaime and Francel are still far too close to the steep edge of Witchdrop for his liking, he finds when he turns to face them. Walking up to them, he sheathes his sword in hopes the gesture will put the Inquisitor at ease. Regardless of that aim however, he still makes it a point to place himself in front of Francel, blocking the inquisitor from reaching him. 

 

“We do not mean to question the will of the Archbishop, my lord inquisitor. But, as is the case with many others I fear, this trial has been orchestrated by the enemies of House Haillenarte. They have used you and your brothers, Inquisitor, set on tearing apart the bonds between brothers. Surely you must see this by now?”

 

The inquisitor sneers, unfazed by Haurchefant’s plea. “The imaginings of a desperate man. And what proof would you have of this so called plot?” The word is almost spat out in distaste from the darker man's mouth, distaste taking over his face when his eyes dart to the side. “Keep your filthy hands off him, woman! First you attack my guard, now you think to molest him whilst he's unconscious?”

 

Turning to see what the Inquisitor is talking about, he sees M'aila kneeling over the so called guard, ignoring the inquisitor as she unlaces the neck of the man's undershirt. Wordlessly she proceeds to draw a leather thong from below the man's warming layers, a sharp tug snapping the cord and pulling the rosary free from his neck. 

 

“M'aila! What are you-?”

 

Still uttering not a single word, her tail curves outward from her silhouette, likely aiding her balance as she rises gracefully from the crouch in one fluid motion. Marching resolutely to stand in front of the Inquisitor, her arched brow speaks volumes as she holds her hand palm up for all to clearly see the distinctly draconian rosary glinting in the light.

 

"By the Fury…" his whispered oath is loud in the absence of the inquisitors demands, the man's face gone ashen at the sight of the rosary. Haurchefant launches into an explanation of his suspicions, fearful that if he doesn't seize this chance the inquisitor may never allow it to him. 

 

"Heretics in the ranks of the Temple Knights …" The man's face twists into a disdainful grimace as he absorbs Haurchefant's words. "It would appear" the investor begins haltingly, words grinding like stones between tightly clenched teeth, "that your theory bears some merit, Lord Greystone. I shall withdraw my investigation on Lord Francel for the time being."

 

His insinuation that Haurchefant remember his status in Ishgard is not lost on the man, though he refuses to give the Inquisitor the satisfaction of a response. Ever defensive over his friend's status, Francel's indignant inhalation is fully expected but still brings a warmth to Haurchefant's chest even as he steps more fully in front of Francel, silently telling him to hold his rebuke in check for the time being. 

 

"As for you," the inquisitor addresses M'aila again, frown furrowing his brow as he looks at her with disapproval plain on his face.  "I trust you have not lost sight of that which brought you here. Pray find your errant airship soon. And use it."

 

The inquisitor turns sharply on his heel, snatching the rosary from her hand and stalks off in the direction of Camp Dragonhead, dark-clad form stark against the snow.  His former guard is left behind in the snow for Haurchefant to apprehend, unspoken orders a clear reminder of his authority within the Holy See.

 

"Thank you, my friend.  That you would save me once more with no regard to your own life …"

 

Haurchefant sweeps Francel into a brief embrace, hoping to convey the relief that he can't form into words.  "I know you, Francel. Your pride and faith would have had you walking off that cliff of your own will if you thought it would save your family name. I could not allow you to do that in vain."

 

"I would have done whatever it took to redeem House Haillenarte …"

 

"I know.  Let us pray in thanks that it did not come to that today." 

 

He turns to M'aila, warm smile curving his thin lips upward. "Thank you for your aid today, my friend.  It was a pleasure to fight alongside such a skilled warrior."

 

He pauses, eyes gaining a twinkle of mischief in them, and he bows deeply. As he comes back up, his smile takes a wicked turn as he reaches out to lift her hand, placing a gentle kiss on her gloved knuckles. "One of many such I hope to share in the future." He murmurs softly, too softly for Francel and Hourlinet's ears but as clear to M'aila's as if he had shouted.

 

There's no small amount of pleasure gained from the widened eyes and deepening flush that spreads across her cheekbones and into her hair.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so much fun making M'aila blush :D <3 <3 <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BY THE TWELVE! Did someone share this somewhere??!? I went from 430-something hits two weeks ago, and now I'm over 500! I've been sharing on my tumblr, and with my guildmates, but not seen a lot of interest on either. Where did you all come from? Was it Twitter? Someone else's tumblr?
> 
> I'm so, so happy that so many of you have liked it enough to have clicked in and read! This one's a shorter chapter, but hooooo boy is the next one already making up for it lol hope you enjoy!

CH6

 

When he was working, tools in hand, it didn't matter whether he was Marques or the apparently famous Cid nan Garlond. All of the questions, the wondering, the feeling of being watched, the worry over what he's forgetting this time, all of it fades away as the wrench that fits so solidly in his palm turns a bolt on the side of the alembic. 

That same sense of peace that he felt as Marques whenever he was asked to fix something is magnified, a feeling of rightness filling him as he slowly works to open the broken alembic. Whatever or whoever he may be, this is his calling. 

With their initial request for access to the Steel Vigil denied, M'aila had gone off hunting. He couldn't recall why she'd done so, just that it had made sense at the time. Left with naught else to do but wait, and ever conscious of an unseen gaze following his movements, Cid had sought someplace where he might not be watched so closely. 

His search in turn brought him to find the overworked and under equipped healers of Whitebrim Front. With their grudging permission to enter the infirmary and a grumbled "what's the worst he could do, break them further?", he'd been given leave to work his own sort of magic on the broken equipment.

Where the knowledge of how to do this is coming from escapes him, but there's no doubt in his mind that he's fixed one of these before and would have no trouble now with such a basic model. But how does he know that? He can't recall seeing anything more complex than this, but something inside him knows without any uncertainty that this is a charmingly simple design. 

His hands move almost of their own volition removing the cover of the machine and checking the seal, fingers gaining a nimbleness. That part's good at least, they're not likely to find rubber seals of this size and shape in this backwater camp. 

No, that's not right. A military fort within sight of its capital is hardly a backwater. The thought strikes him as odd and is mentally added onto the ever growing list of unanswered questions. 

The two vials hidden inside are removed with gentle hands. No cracks or start thereof on them, and though the hose connecting them was loose, that's a minor concern with how easy it is to remedy. Easing out the apparatus that holds the vials in place, the source of the problem is quickly apparent. A dried out, withered core of an ice sprite lays in its casing at the bottom of the device. With no aether left to power the alembic, it's no wonder it stopped working.

No matter, M'aila would be back eventually, he can ask her to get some new cores then. If anyone can successfully down the temperamental things, she'll be able to.

Hours pass before she does, hours which Cid is barely aware of as he's absorbed in fixing the infirmaries equipment. By the time she does wander in to find him, hinges have been oiled, vials cleaned, apparatuses lubricated, along with a redesigned chassis and myriad other improvements. 

In fact, her arrival goes entirely unnoticed until a shadow falls directly over him, long auburn red strands of hair tucked over her opposite shoulder as she looks curiously over his shoulder.

"Is that what they usually look like inside?"

"More or less." Cid turns it on the table so she can see the inner workings better. "Your base materials go in here-" a square, calloused finger taps against one of the vials in demonstration, voice taking one the patient time of a teacher passing on his knowledge "and the base liquids of your elixir in this one. An ice crystal will draw all of the cold out of one of the vials, while chilling -"

"Ware thee the kindly stranger, bearer of gifts wondrous and strange, for his generosity comes at cost." A cool voice drifts up from the stairwell, lines spoken as if memorized by rote and spoken often. 

Inquisitor Guillaime is walking slowly up the steps, gait calm and measured as he comes to a stop at the landing. His hand rests lightly on the banister even as his dark eyes scowl down at Cid and M'aila. When next he speaks, his voice is as flat and hard as the stone in the walls around then.

"Their earnest efforts are but a means to an as-yet-unknown end. Moreover, be wary of associating with individuals who have interfered with the questioning of a suspected heretic."

The former calm of the infirmary turns to chaos at his words, healers and attendants shying away from the subjects of his words. 

"They did what?"

"Halone preserve us!"

The head healer rises from his desk near the stairs, bowing deeply to the Inquisitor. "Bless you, Inquisitor, for coming along when you did! We almost succumbed to the temptation provided by these … these unbelievers!"

A low hiss has his hands darting to the hoses in the alembic's shell. Until he remembers there's nothing in them to cause such and realizes that it's actually coming from beside him. 

M'aila's green eyes are narrowed, hands clenched into white knuckled fists on the table. Her tail is twitching behind her, thankfully hidden from view from the rest of the room, top lip starting to curl in distaste as a feline hiss barely escapes through clenched teeth. Vertically slit pupils track the man's movements as he turns his back on the room and proceeds down the stairs, posture telling of a man smug with victory.

The healers are giving them a wide berth and watching them, most especially M'aila, with a cautious eye. It doesn't seem loud enough for the others in the room to catch it, but her expression and laid back ears say more than enough of her opinion of the man. 

It takes a moment before she realizes what she's doing, flushing slightly at Cid's patient stare as she pulls out a second chair and sits next to him. "Why does that man hate us so? Is it all because we interrupted Lord Francel's trial? He was innocent! Anyone would have known that!" The whisper is said into the sleeve of her coat as she folds her arms on the table, laying her head down on them.

He pats her consolingly on the shoulder before turning back to his work, slotting the pieces back into place as smoothly as he took it apart. "Whatever his reasons, he clearly means to oppose us at every turn. I'm almost done here and then I suppose we should find where Alphinaud has gotten to." 

Testing the movements of the repaired lever, he's satisfied to hear the soft whir of the components moving, smooth and unresisting as he somehow knows it should be. A few more twists of his wrist and the bottom tray of the alembic pops out once more, ready for new crystals. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to fetch me a handful of ice sprite cores?"

Her head turns into her elbow, shoulder shaking in a silent laugh. Whatever the cause for her amusement, he's glad to see the tension bleeding out of her frame. Reaching down to her feet she drags one of her smaller saddle bags into her lap and, after a brief rummage through it, reveals three pristine ice cores, large enough to spill from her palm and certainly ideal for what he needs.

Her eyes are still crinkled with mirth as she offers them to him "Will this be enough?"

She pauses at his surprised look, hand curling around the cores. "What? They attacked me earlier, and I was just going to sell them when we got back to Gridania."

Somehow, he'd forgotten the tendency of adventurers to collect everything they come across, and that M'aila was no different. Rubbing at his temples to try to ease the sudden ache, it seems so obvious now that he's thought it. Something he should have known to expect, but somehow had forgotten. 

"No, these are perfect." Accepting them from her smaller hands, he examines each of them in turn. Finer quality than he'd have expected for something that she'd just picked up to sell. 

"You have a good eye for these, my dear." The light shines clearly through the light blue crystals, aether swirling gently through its depths even as the cold emanating from them bites at his skin.

Her shrug is nonchalant. "They fetch a good price on the market boards, so I pick them up whenever I can."

He can't help a small grin at that, the market for crystals certainly is a healthy one and it's smart of her to have picked up on that. They're an odd fit, but with a bit of wiggling the crystals fit snugly into the tray. He's pleased to hear a satisfying snick as the drawer slides back into place, held securely by a new mechanism.

Palms slapping into his thighs, Cid pushes his chair back along the floor as he rises to his feet, trying to ignore the empty feeling now that he has nothing to work on. Striding over to speak with the head healer he's met only with a stony silence. Thin lips flattening into a grimace, he's determined to wait out the man's stubbornness, unconsciously shifting to the parade rest of the Garlean military command, feet shoulder width apart and hands clasping his elbows loosely behind his straightened back, head held high as he stares down the man in front of him.

Its a short but tense moment before the man looks up from his writing, snapping at Cid as he lays down his quill. "Yes? What do you want?" Where previously he had been passive towards his presence, now the man is downright hostile in his expression and tone.

The man still hasn't risen from his seat, obstinately choosing to hold his position. Crossing his arms over his chest, Cid continues to stare him down. "The repairs on your alembic are finished. You'll note some improvements, but the use of it will be the same as before."

He tries to hide his furtive glance at the device in question, brows furrowing when he sees M'aila beside it, gathering her saddlebags from the ground. "We want for nothing from your hands, outsider." The words are hissed through clenched teeth, pride dripping from every word.

Eyes narrowing in annoyance, Cid feigns a nonchalant shrug as he turns away from the man. "It's your alembic. Do with it what you will." He wasn't planning on charging them for the work, but maybe he should have if the man can't even give thanks.

His steps falter as he approaches the stairs to follow M'aila out. Charging them? What does Marques know of charging for a service? He'd never done such a thing before in his life …. Had he? His hand finds its way to the hammer in his belt, thumb worrying idly at a gently worn groove in the wood as he takes the stairs slowly

"-attire is ill suited to this climate. I had thought it would not take so long to find the Enterprise, but I fear I was sorely mistaken. Instead we have wasted far too much time meddling in foreign affairs."

Rounding the stairs, he sees Alphinaud standing with M'aila just inside the doors, standing near to the hearth warming the first floor.

"Ah, Cid, there you are." Alphinaud beckons him over to join them with a nod off his head, hands not leaving the warmth of the fire. "It would appear that before we can persuade Lord Drillemont to aid us, we must convince Inquisitor Guillaime that we are not his enemy. Have you any thoughts on the matter?"

"The two of you have had more dealings with him than I. I'm not the one to ask, I should think."

"But of course, we must ask those who know him if we are to find the reason for his distrust." While Alphinaud seems to miss it, Cid catches the sardonic look that darts across M'aila's face and can't help but agree. They know perfectly well why the Inquisitor mistrusts them.

"Now, if we are to find the information we need, then perhaps-"

"If you lot are determined to talk the day away, could you do so outside and let a man sleep?" A coarse voice grouses from one of the infirmary beds round the corner. 

Hair raises on the back of Cid's neck. If there was one unknown listener, who else might be watching them? It's a strong conscious effort on his part not to tighten his shoulders and look behind him.

The tips of Alphinaud's ears pinken at the sudden interruption as M'aila pokes her head around the corner. Visibly gathering his dignity around himself once more before entering the little room tucked under the stairs, Alphinaud bows in apology to the wounded elezen.

"My deepest apologies, Ser …"

Struggling to prop himself up on his elbows, he waves off M'aila's offer of aid. "I'm no knight. Just Joellaut. I'll tell you whatever you want if you'll leave, or just leave a man his silence."

Cid sees the way Alphinaud's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly in calculation as he watches the man wave M'aila off again. "I'm alright, girl. Just a bad fall on the ice."

"Perhaps you might be able to aid us. Do you know aught of Inquisitor Guillaime? I fear we've struck wrong with him somehow and we seek to make amends."

"The Inquisitor? Yes of course I know of him, the man saved my life! Alas I have not seen him since the day he came to Whitebrim Front several moons ago. My memory is somewhat muddled, but I recall …."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 <3 I really wanted to try writing Cid and touch at least a little bit on how he's kinda stuck between two personalities and sets of memories at this point, and how being an engineer and fixing this is what's starting to pull him out of his amnesia/fugue state.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit you guys. 666 HITS??!?!? SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!
> 
> OMG I was initially planning to wait to release this one until I had a picture to pay alongside it, but how can I not give it early with that hit count?? (I'll edit the picture link in here though when I get it)
> 
> Part of the delay has also been me finally creating a Twitter. It's been a long time dive I RP'ed anything, but it is a WoL character RP account. Mostly memes so far, but some RPing, screenshots and author rambles. Come follow me! @batih_m
> 
> This chapter is probably my longest one yet, but also one of my favourites so far. Hope you guys enjoy!

CH7

 

"Something troubles me about that wounded knight's account. He claims he fell chasing a figure in the darkness that he saw outside the eastern gate, yes? But the main road leads to the southwestern gate. Since we've arrived in Whitebrim Front, I've seen no travelers arrive by the eastern gate."

Alphinaud's words echo through M'aila's memory as she gazes up at a sliver of bright blue sky, winds calm for once work no hint of snow. It would be blindingly bright were she not at the bottom of a deep chasm.

"Moreover, he said he glimpsed a silhouette illuminated by the light of the city, which would imply that the Inquisitor came from the north of the eastern gate rather than the south. But it cannot be so - that way lies naught but a deep chasm."

Glancing down to her feet at the snow covered form of a fallen aevis, she sighs. Of course he would have been correct in his assertion.

"Assuming Ser Joellaut is not misremembering, the inquisitors behavior that night makes absolutely no sense, at least to me. Mayhaps retracing his steps will shed light on this mystery."

"So much for not meddling in their politics anymore." She mutters, glance turning to the blood soaked tunic of a man looking strikingly like the same Inquisitor Guillaime that she had seen march out of Whitebrim Front's southernmost gate that very morning. 

The equally bloody encyclical found on the man's body, proclaiming Guillaime Fortibert a newly appointed inquisitor not even a full two moons ago judging by the date at the bottom, is just the evidence they'd been looking for. And more than enough for her to know that things had just become significantly more complicated.

Rolling it back into the folio she'd found it in, dried blood flaking off the fine scrollworked leather, she takes a moment to pay respects to the remnant she'd slain but moments prior. No doubt it was what remained of the poor inquisitors soul, his aether screaming for justice to be done to his killer should he return.

The climb out of the gorge is silent as M'aila mulls over what she's found. How to convince Lord Drillemont of the truth? Taking it straight to him wouldn't work. He'd probably just think they were trying to frame the imposter. No, they'd need to find something more. But what?

The folio feels heavy in her pouch when The guard at the gate gives her an odd look. Feigning her best nonchalant shrug, she forces a wry grin. "No airship there unless it's in the clouds. It was worth checking."

The guard chortles and waves her back through into the camp. Questions on why she would go out that way then come back empty handed shortly after are the last thing they need right now. She heads straight for Alphinaud, still warming himself by the large fire in the centre of the courtyard.

"No airship down that way. ….. Wouldn't you be warmer inside? You were complaining all night about being cold." Her voice is raised slightly and despite his indignant sputtering at her change of topic it doesn't take Alphinaud long to see through her ruse, playing along when M'aila arches a silent eyebrow at him and starts ushering him back into their "room" in the stables. The tips of his ears still pinken in embarrassment at the Levemaster's smothered grin as they pass.

To his credit, he manages to hold his curiosity until after M'aila's ensures their solitude, checking the stables for any that could overhear. Lingering a moment too long over Dino, whispering softly to him as she scratches the feathers along the edge of his beak, she merely gives Alphinaud a faintly grumpy look when he marches up to her side. "You found something, didn't you?"

She sighs again, resting her forehead on Dino's. Her continued silence is confirmation enough for Alphinaud.

"Well? Don't keep me in suspense. What is it?" His tone is imperious, thin hands braced on equally thin hips and somehow still seeming as if he's staring down his nose at her despite standing quite a few ilms shorter in his late adolescence.

The folio is drawn out of her pouch and handed over silently, gaze barely leaving her chocobo. Dino, sensing her mood, kwehs dolefully and raises his head to gently preen the hair around her ears with his beak in an attempt to comfort her. It had taken quite a while to get used to it, taking her quite off guard the first time he'd tried it, but eventually he'd learned the importance of being careful around them, and now knew not to also submit her ears to his attention. 

Scratching idly at loose feathers in his ruff, M'aila submits to the preening with amusement replacing the unease at what she'd found. No doubt her hair would be a mess once Dino was done, but it always seemed to put him at ease to do it. Plucking a loose feather from his neck, she returns the favor as best she can while Alphinaud opens the folio and examines its contents. 

Out of the corner of her eye she can see that he's staring at the thick vellum in his hands. His breath when he finishes is heavy, but controlled and even. "Well then …."

His motions are steady as he returns it once more to the folio. "Given the contents, I believe you have just made the acquaintance of the real Inquisitor Guillaime. Newly come to Coerthas and as yet an unknown face? Yes, it would have been frighteningly simple to assume his identity." 

His voice takes on the tone of one lost in thought and musing outloud. "For all we've seen here, it's no wonder. Even if he were to behave oddly, who would dare question a papal appointment? Yet we still have not discerned his true identity, or why he's decided to oppose us."

There's another pause before he continues, addressing her directly now. "We must move quickly, M'aila, lest he learn that his deception has been uncovered! Lord Drillemont has already been turned against us, and I fear this encyclical alone would only incriminate us further."

Cid enters the stable, shutting the door gently behind him. Nodding in greeting to M'aila, he leans against one of the stalls between them and the door, arms crossed casually in front of his chest as he waits for Alphinaud to finish his thoughts.

"We must needs find proof enough to persuade him to our side. But what might be enough for a man so quick to disregard the endorsements of two High Houses?" He trails off into a musing tone again, handing the folio back to her as he stares into the empty space over her shoulder.

"Perhaps … The cook did say that the Lord listens to and respects the opinions of his knight's. If a certain knight were to provide testimony that supports our claim, we may perhaps have a chance."

"Whatever it is that you've found there, I'm afraid that is not an option to us. The man is stoutly convinced of our dear Inquisitor's virtue and refuses to consider otherwise."

"Cid!" He's already getting better at not jumping when someone comes upon him from behind, M'aila notices. It's too bad, it had proven amusing during the quieter days in Camp Dragonhead to creep up on him. "What do you mean? You've spoken to him already?"

"I haven't, but we'll just be wasting our breath on him. The healers were questioning him about that night, and he was adamant that the man was his saviour. It would seem they're skeptical of the source of his injury."

Dino bumps his large, feathered head into M'aila's shoulder, urging her to continue with the scratching that had slowed during Alphinaud's musings and stopped after Cid's appearance. Grinning at him, she scratches once more at the feathers under his beak, a crooning, drawn-out kweh filling the stable.

If he's bothered by the sound, Alphinaud doesn't show it. His gaze is still fixed on Cid, hoping and expecting more information. "What then? We'll need something more. Was there anything else said?"

"He had told the healers to speak to Ser Prunilla if they didn't believe him. Apparently she was the one to help our dear Inquisitor carry him into camp." His broad shoulders hunch together in a shrug, arms still crossed in front of his chest. "If she holds to the events as fervently as he does, we may not get anywhere though."

It's unsurprising when Alphinaud then turns to M'aila. "Would you speak to her? If you could prise the truth of that night from her, it might be enough to sway Lord Drillemont's mind."

 

****

 

The next morning shows Lord Drillemont, eyes closed and palm reflexively tightening on the pommel of the sword hanging at his side, sighing heavily into the silence of his tower office. "Had mine own men not returned from their patrol bearing a trunk filled to the brim with those damned heretics jewellery, I would be disinclined to believe this. But this evidence and your testimony leave no other conclusion "

A gauntleted hand gestures to bring the guard forward from the stairs, the man coming to a half next to Prunilla. "That you would not only aid in this deception, but also frame the noble house of Haillenarte of your own will near beggars belief. Ever have I known you to be an honest and loyal daughter of Ishgard. Yet in this, you shall have to face the consequences of your actions alone."

A nod has the lady knight being escorted down the stairs without a word. M'aila can only hope that they won't be too hard on the woman. 

Turning to the wide-eyed scribe tucked next to a desk in the corner. "Prepare letters for Lord Portelaine, Lord Francel, Inquisitor Brigie, and Ser Greystone. Inform them of the false inquisitor's heresy, and request their presence with all urgency and discretion. We shall move on him this evening. Have Ser Alifort and Ser Patreaux bear the messages, they are relieved of their current duties for the day. Ensure they leave within the bell."

"Eliasson!" Drillemont's voice is a sharp snap on the air, and a rustle sounds from the floor below.

A blonde elezen man runs up the curving stairs, going into a bow as he comes to a stop in front of the Lord Durendaire. "My lord?"

"We must recover a corpse that languishes in the chasm to our north. Select your most discreet men, and tell none of what you find there. Take it directly to Astidien with the instructions to keep its identity confidential until informed otherwise, and let none other see it's face. Inform me when this is done."

The man's face scrunches in puzzlement, but he doesn't question his Lord's orders before he leaves the room. Men can be heard griping at being roused from their beds shortly after. 

Lord Drillemont de Durendaire then turns back to M'aila, bowing at the waist to the Miqo'te woman. "I have misjudged you and your friends, and for that I deeply apologize. I see now that I was a fool to dismiss your claims out of hand... But you must understand, it seemed too much to believe that the Scions of the Seventh Dawn still lived, to say nothing of Master Garlond! I will permit you to enter the outpost, but first we must bring this infernal imposter to justice. And for that I must needs beg your assistance."

Ever the budding diplomat, it's Alphinaud who is quick to speaks up, stepping forward from between M'aila and Cid. "What is it you would have us do, Lord Drillemont?"

"For the moment, nothing. The imposter makes for Snowcloak even now, intending to pass judgement on yet another poor soul whom he has branded heretic." 

Starting in surprise, M'aila whirls to the stairs behind her, filled with the need to stop Guillaime from sentencing another innocent. 

"HALT!" She's already a few steps down the stairs before she hears Drillemont's command. Hard green eyes meet his, ears laid back against her hair in silent affront that he would stop her.

"We cannot risk that thrice-damned heretic learning that we are aware of his deception. As … valiant as your desire to save the common man is, we must allow him to carry on as he so desires until we are ready to apprehend him." His words are drawn out in a dry tone, as if explaining to a simple-minded child. 

"My lord, surely-" Alphinaud's protest is cut short by M'aila's exclamation, voice hard and cold with suppressed emotion. 

"You would abandon them to die!?" 

His answer is ruthless and without hesitation. "If it would allow us to put an end to their heresy, then let the price be paid."

Now trapped between hostile forces, the others in the small room are all but forgotten by the two. While Drillemont's tells are all but unknown, the clench of her jaw and the bristling tail arching behind her have Alphinaud and Cid wondering if they would even be capable of restraining their comrade from doing something very ill advised. The look in her eyes is not one they've yet seen in their short travels together and, though he agrees with her, Alphinaud finds himself sending an unvoiced prayer to Thaliak that M'aila sees reason.

Armor rustles as Lord Durendaire's remaining men reach for their swords, ready to defend him off necessary. Neither M'aila nor the Lord himself shift from their positions, though a quick analysis tells M'aila this would be a poor location to pick a fight, and that she would not likely win in such close quarters. 

Ears flattening even further into her hair, blending in almost completely now, she forces herself to visibly relax even if she still wants to strike the man for his callousness. "Fine. Let their blood be on your hands then." Her voice is a soft, sharp hiss in the room, tension fading only when she's whirled around and stalked down the stairs and out of view. 

The last thing she hears before going out of range is Alphinaud placating the lord and his men and promising that they will stay out of their way and keep their heads down until the time arrives for them to act. Exiting the tower, tail still bristling behind her, she approaches the stables just in time for a young trainee to leave the tower and run past her to one of the guards at the gate, handing over a small stack of letters. Looking at his companion, the guard shrugs before accepting the letters and striding towards the very stables that M'aila is in front of.

Stepping inside, she holds the door for the guard before going to fetch Dino from his borrowed stall. If she can’t fight Guillaime, she’ll at least find something she can fight.

 

****

 

Sprinting through the snow, M'aila barely makes it out of the way before a bolt of pure aetheric ice strikes the stone she'd been standing on, a layer of ice and hoarfrost swiftly overtaking its previously bare surface.

Kwehing indignantly, Dino manages to kick yet another piece of ice off the massively sized sprite. It would be heartening if it weren't the fifth such block to fall from its form. As before when the sprites appendage sinks into the snow, a spreading layer of ice forms a thin but deadly sharp crust atop the powder.

Still showing no signs of being slowed by injury, the sprites deceptively delicate-looking arms whirl around its gently glowing core, whipping the snow around it into a frenzy. Dino, caught in the miniature blizzard, hunkers down with a startled squawk, fluffing his feathers and tucking his head under a wing to weather the sudden burst of cold and snow. 

Carefully taking aim at the creatures core, the arrow in her bow briefly glows a dark red before flying loose. A clear chime sounds through the air, arrowhead striking the peak of the core and bouncing free. Muttering for the Twelve to strike it down already, she fumbles for another arrow as it somehow turns its eyeless gaze back to her. 

Now free of the risk of being frozen by howling winds, Dino continues his assault on the living ice crystal. Dodging between swinging arms, he pecks away at them with a vengeance as he tries to get between them to the glowing core. 

So focused on taking aim for her next shot, M'aila misreads a cue and fails to dodge the next blast in time, swiftly forming ice trapping her booted feet in the snow. The chill sets into her toes already, skin prickling at the sudden cold despite her many layers. Trying to jerk one of her feet out of the thickening crust of ice has her still trapped and certain that if her boots were any thinner the leather and her skin underneath would now be shredded.

"Hold its attention Dino!" Her voice carries over the sound of crackling ice as she momentarily swings her bow over her head and hangs it around her torso. Pulling a small dagger from her waist, knees now aching with encroaching cold, she starts chipping at the ice and working herself free.

Just as she's pulling her left foot free and brushing the rime from the leather, a loud and sudden kweh from Dino has her head jerking up in alarm. Just in time to see Dino jumping back from the sprite as a sword cleaves the core in two, revealing a head of silver-blue hair and a familiar set of concerned eyes. 

Sheathing his sword, Haurchefant near leaps over the core to come to her side, Dino at his heels. "M'aila! Are you alright, my friend?"

Tension seeps out of her in a wave, freed knee nearly buckling with relief. His timing could not have been better. “I’ll be fine. Give me a moment.” Tugging her still trapped right leg, she finds that the ice still holds quite firmly, even with the death of its originator. Finding a solid space on the encrusted snow to stand on, she rests her weight on her back leg and spins the blade around in her hand to start chipping at the ice growing up the back of her knee. 

That is, until a gauntleted hand gently pulls the knife from her chilled fingers. “Allow me, my friend.”

Sinking to his knees in the snow, Haurchefant makes quick work of the ice. His palm is warm against the back of her calf, holding her steady as he slides the tip of the blade between ice and leather, leveraging it free. It’s a stark comparison against her harsh chipping, and far more effective. The imprint of his hand feels as if it’s a heated brand on her skin, even through the thick boarskin leather of her boot.

Time seems to slow to a crawl as he works to free her, M’aila unable to tear her gaze from the whorl parting his hair at the top of his head. He lifts his gaze only when she comes free, deep blue eyes holding her still as if she were frozen through her whole body. Pressing the dagger’s hilt into her palm, Haurchefant smiles at her gently. “How is that?”

Finally tearing her gaze away from him, she glances down at her ankle, flexing it slowly. There’s far less ice left cutting into the leather than on the one she had freed, and it shows in the full range of motion she now has. “Much better.” Her voice is a whisper, afraid to break the sudden stillness that she feels around her. “Thank you.”

Standing casually in front of her, soft smile on his lips, he's still leaning in towards her for some reason that she can't quite pinpoint. Blinking suddenly, she mentally shakes herself free of whatever it is that seems to have caught her mind. "Are you answering Lord Drillemont's letter then?"

His shoulders slump ever so slightly, and she can't help but wonder if it was something she said. "Yes, we were on our way there when we saw you fighting." The smile returns briefly then, brilliant in its enthusiasm. "How courageous of you to fight Lutin on your own! That one has been a blight to us for quite some time now, and we had yet to muster enough volunteers to take it on. Watching you fight, the heat of your body mingling with the unbroken snow …. Aaaah, what a splendid sight it was. Would that there were more chances to fight by your side, my dear."

There’s a heat creeping up her chest into her face that she can’t will down, his gaze is so intense. The thought flits through her mind that this is why she’d prefer to just fade into the background, suddenly at a loss for how to respond to such direct praise.

It’s only when a voice lightly clears behind her that she realizes that not only are they not alone, but that Haurchefant had been leaning closer in and about to take her hand into his. Ears picking to full height atop her head, she whirls only to see Francel, Hourlinet, Inquisitor Brigie, and someone she recognizes as one of Francel’s guards watching them from chocobo-back. Hourlinet, holding the reins of a fifth bird, leads his mount forward with a subtle tightening of his knees. Handing the reins to the other man with a dry “My Lord”, it somehow sounds more like a rebuke than the acknowledgment of status the words would imply. 

That brilliant smile turns to the bright yellow bird in front of him, and M’aila finally feels like she can breathe freely again. It’s no hardship to find Dino, his smaller frame more suited to M’aila’s stature standing behind Haurchefant. Sharp black eyes watch the Elezen man warily, only leaving the man’s back and returning to her when he swings atop his own mount. Trotting to her side, he kwehs affectionately at her, butting his feathered head against her chest and nearly knocking her back into the snow. 

“Yes, I see you, you big feathered lump.” She murmurs with a laugh, combing her fingers through the feathers between his eyes even as she places a soft kiss on the top of his beak. “Shall we go back now?”

An enthusiastic croon is her answer as Dino turns to present his side to her. Unnoticed by M’aila is the way Dino stares unblinkingly at Haurchefant as she runs her hands along his sides before swinging herself onto his back. Shaking feathers back into place, he obediently brings M’aila next to Francel at her urging. “You’re well? Has he been giving you any trouble?”

Francel’s eyes laugh at her as he cocks his head in question. “Who? The inquisitor or Haurchefant?”

“I ….” Looking back at Haurchefant in surprise, she sees that he’s coming up to her side once more. “What? The inquisitor, of course.”

If anything, Francel’s expression becomes even more humorous than before, though she notes that it seems to be aimed at Haurchefant more than herself. “Nay, there has been a blessed lack of rosaries found in Skyfire Locks since that day. House Haillenarte extends its deepest thanks to you.” His bow from the seat of his saddle is surprisingly deep, something she’s not sure she’d be able to imitate with much grace at all. “Shall we continue on then? Twould be best were we to arrive before the inquisitor’s return, I should think.”

Nodding in agreement, the small group is soon proceeding down the road at a steady trot. “Unless our dear adventurer has more creatures she intended to slay this day?” Haurchefant’s tone is teasing as he and M’aila soon emerge ahead of the group, Dino and Haurchefant’s own bird seemingly determined to test each other while they have the chance. 

Deciding to just let Dino have his own lead, she drops the reins around the horn of her saddle, shaking her head as she gazes down at her gloves. “I, I hadn’t intended to fight anything like that … err, Lutin, was it called?.” The word feels jumbled in her mouth as if she’s speaking around a cotton boll. As wonderful as the Echo is for helping her understand others, pronunciation doesn’t seem to fall under its purview. 

She doesn’t need to look up at him to know that he’s curious. The silence is telling enough, and not for the first time she appreciates his willingness to wait for her to gather her thoughts. 

“I was so … so angry. I couldn’t stay there anymore when he was willing to let him kill another innocent person just to be able to catch Guillaime. So I took Dino and left. Lutin was just the first thing we came across that looked like a challenge.” The silence lingers long enough to wonder if perhaps she should have kept her opinion to herself. This is one of his own countrymen she’s speaking ill of after all, and she’s still a newcomer to their lands. 

When he does respond, his voice is steady and measured as he considers his words carefully. “Lord Drillemont has ever been a … difficult man to understand. Yet there is no denying his dedication to Ishgard’s defense. I’ve met few men as fervent as he in their desire to root out the heretics. His convictions have ever been as strong as his faith. Twould take more strength than you or I have in our bodies to convince him to let a known heretic go free for long. And even more for him to risk losing a prize such as this. That he has heeded your evidence despite your origins and is taking action against one he had publicly acknowledged as a man of the Holy See says much. Take heart, my friend, in that knowledge.”

“But to condemn someone that is likely innocent of any treachery?”

Slowing his bird back to a simple trot has Dino following suit, allowing them to speak more easily. Still staring down at her gloves, M’aila fails to notice his quick glance over his shoulder at the group behind them, though his now hushed tone is hard to miss. “It is an unfortunately common outlook amongst the more privileged of Ishgard. The purity of ones blood means much to men such as Lord Drillemont. Perhaps more than it should, but I fear there is naught such as you or I could do to change it. We must merely attempt to make as much difference as we can.”

Finally looking up from her gloves, she sees his gaze not fixed on her but over her shoulder, a distant look of unease pulling at his lips. Whitebrim Front may now be looming ahead, but the towering heights of Ishgard stand starkly against the day’s clear blue sky, gleaming as white as the snow in the sun’s bright light and drawing the eye to its towers and arched pillars. It’s an inspiring sight in a way, though not likely what his thoughts centre around at the moment. 

“Lord Drillemont has laid the charges, and so we too must play our part as witnesses and let events unfold as they may. It may not be ideal, my friend, but I would ask for your continued aid and patience in this.” Even as she turns back to face him, he’s raising his arm and voice to those behind them. “Inquisitor Brigie, if you would be so kind as to take the lead from here?”

The silver-haired woman eases her mount past them, lips pressing a grim line across her face. Even her chosen mount is slim and austere in appearance, and that same grim mood settles over the group as they enter through Whitebrim Front’s southern gate. Handlers rush to take their birds, even going so far as to take Dino’s reins from M’aila, allowing them to continue unimpeded into the central tower of the fort. Glances of surprise and hushed murmurs follow behind as they mount that winding staircase. 

“Ah, Inquisitor Brigie. Would that you were visiting under more pleasant circumstances. My Lord Francel, Ser Greystone, welcome. How fortuitous that you should arrive at the same time.” Drillemont’s voice has not softened since she’d last stormed out of here.

“Spare the pleasantries, Drillemont. Where is he?” Brigie’s voice is cold and to the point.

“Yet to return from Snowcloak, I’m told. He must be finding a veritable trove of heretics there. We await only Lord Portelaine’s arrival before we can begin the proceedings. Tis my hope that he shall arrive before our dear inquisitor’s return.” The bland dryness in his voice rankles at M’aila’s conscience, tail bristling even as she notes Haurchefant himself stiffening at the news. 

“He should be arriving not long after we three. I happened to be visiting Camp Dragonhead when your messengers arrived, and so they have no need to visit Skyfire Locks in search of me.” Francel’s explanation brings a slight gentling to Drillemont’s face. 

“Shall we begin our plans then while we await his arrival?”

“First I would confirm his identity and see to the true Guillaime’s soul whilst we have the time. Where is he being kept?” The warmth in Brigie’s voice is the first sign of something other than anger that M’aila has seen of the woman this day. 

“In a private room in our infirmary. This way, my lady Inquisitor.” Bowing in acquiesence, Drillemont leads the woman back down the stairs they had just climbed. 

“Shall we see this for ourselves then?” Francel’s murmur is met with a solemn nod from Haurchefant.

“Let there be no doubt this time that the man we accuse is truly guilty.” Swiftly catching up with the others as they leave the tower, he inclines his head to M’aila. “My friend, were you truly the one to find his body?”

The story of the previous days events, of suspicion regarding the injured Joellaut’s account of events and her gruesome discovery, is told in hushed tones as they cross the courtyard. Though the changes are slight in the woman’s otherwise calm and neutral expression, one can see Brigie’s simmering anger and indignation rising with every word. When finally they chance to look at the man’s still corpse, her hands are clenched into fists at her sides. “How dare he? To not only frame innocents of his very crimes, but to murder and impersonate such a kind soul …”

Murmuring a prayer over his body, she leads the small group in a performance of last rights for the man. M’aila, suddenly feeling very much the outsider, lets herself out of the room and closes the door behind her with the softest hand she can muster. Hearing a commotion outside she exits the infirmary only to come upon Portelaine in a heated conversation with Guillaime himself in front of the pyre in the centre of the courtyard. 

“I shall speak with you later, Inquisitor! I am here on the request of Lord Drillemont and none else!” 

“I would caution you on your tone, Lord Portelaine, lest some take offense.” Thick black brows are knitted together, blue eyes narrowed at Lord Portelaine in suspicion.

“Would you accuse him as you have so many other innocents?” Brigie’s voice is loud and clear, halting all other conversation around them. 

“I’m afraid I don’t follow your meaning, my friend.” His voice is smooth and slick, no sign of hesitation in his bluff. Brigie marches past M’aila, descending the steps to stand in front of the imposter . From her stance, none would be surprised were she to strike at him with an open palm.

“I name thee heretic. I name thee murderer and imposter, false inquisitor. I name thee traitor to the Holy See of Ishgard. Speak now in your defense.” Drillemont’s accusation rings out from the head of the stairs, boots ringing on the cobblestones as he walks past M’aila.

A smirk grows slowly on his face as Drillemont speaks. “Ah...grave allegations indeed. But you will find your logic is flawed. How can I betray that which I owe no allegiance? No, Lord Drillemont─my conscience is quite clear, I assure you.” Spreading his arms in front of him, he pays no acknowledgment to the growing murmurs of the soldiers around him. “I wonder...can you say the same? You whose hands are black with the blood of those whose only sin was to question your nation's crazed crusade!”

“You do not deny it then? That you have murdered an Inquisitor of the Holy See and murdered countless innocents in the name of your heresy?” 

“Innocents? Hah! All are complicit in the crimes of your people, for all live their lives by the archbishop's lies. If you desire retribution, Lord Drillemont, then come … let us see how Ishgardian steel fares against Dravanian fang and claw!” Hand darting into a pocket in his robe, he produces a small glass bottle and ripping the cork from the bottle, he downs the dark red liquid inside in one go. Immediately his entire body starts shuddering and convulsing, arms clasping around his middle as if to ward off intense pain. 

A cloud of shadows and purple light burst forth from beneath his feet, obscuring his form from view. The shadows drag and whirl in place, seemingly coming from nowhere and being blown by an unfelt wind, stopping only when a pair of large black clawed wings burst out of the smoke and flare open to reveal a black and red dragon in the heretics stead. 

“I … AM … REBORN!!” Guillaime’s voice echoes through the pavilion, unmistakably coming from the dragon’s mouth. Men that had been slowly milling towards him start backing away in surprise and fear, rallying only at their lord’s command to stand and fight, insisting that this is only an illusion.

Hourlinet is swiftly kept occupied healing those soldiers and knights unfortunate enough to be caught by both spell and gnashing teeth. Swords flash and spears dart in and out between wings, tail, and neck, the men and women of Ishgard stationed at Whitebrim Front doubt what they've lived and trained for - fighting and slaying dragons.

Spewing lightning and ice, the former Elezen keeps most of them at bay, stopping only when a set of aetherial chains pin his legs to the ground. Head whirling, a blast of ice lands at M’aila’s feet, a near miss thanks to a quick jump away. Shields raised and steel bared, Lord Haurchefant and Lord Drillemont run in to attack while he’s immobile, Haurchefant dropping to his knees on the cobblestones to avoid the snapping jaws. Swinging out, he manages a clean slice at the creatures knees before having to duck behind his shield as a bolt of ice comes straight at him. 

Drillemont, taking advantage of its ire against Haurchefant, manages to slip under a wing. Honed and sharpened steel slides smoothly into the dragon’s gut even as an arrow laced with black aether strikes just off of center in the middle of the barreled chest. The aetheric chains dissolve into the air and Guillaime staggers back, smoke and light oozing out of the wounds before shadow folds into itself with a rush of wind, pulling at cloth and hair as if to drag others in with its collapse.

Heavy woolen robes rustle in the wind, knees striking the ground as Guillaume's elezen form takes shape once more from the shadows. Chest heaving and hands clawing at the ground, it's clear that - illusion or no - the wounds inflicted on the dravanian had struck true. "My glamours … dispelled … " The words come haltingly as he sends a scorn and hate filled stare at those in front of him.

“You have been charged and found wanting, imposter. By the authority invested in me by the Holy See of Ishgard, for the crimes of heresy, murder, and the impersonation of an official appointed by His Holiness the Archbishop Thordan VII, you are hereby sentenced to death. May the Fury take mercy on your soul.” Brigie’s voice seems somehow magnified as she declares his sentence, waving her hand to bring Lord Drillemont closer to the man bleeding onto the ground.

“Your plans lie in ruin, heretic. Choose your words wisely, for they will be your last.” The tip of Drillemont’s sword digs into the soft underside of Guillaime’s chin, thin trickle of blood leaking down his neck as he’s forced to crane it ever higher.

Chuckling only sends the sword’s point further into his neck, threatening to slit his adam’s apple even as he speaks. His eyes are filled with hate even as he visibly forces himself to sit up straight and tall despite his wounds. “You may not recall the many Ishgardians I have sentenced, but the families of the dead will never forget. Blood has been repaid with blood, and for that I am content. My only regret ... “ His gaze slides past Drillemont, past Haurchefant, past the only now arriving Alphinaud and Cid, to rest on M’aila, malice so strong she can nearly feel the heat. “My only regret is that you yet live. Your end is nigh, foreigner. Savor your victory whilst you can, the dragons within the Stone Vigil will rend you asunder. And when you are dead ... “ a rapturous bliss overtakes his face “Aaaaah! When you are dead, Whitebrim Front shall fall…”

Jaw clenched and nostrils flaring, Drillemont glances at Inquisitor Brigie, hesitating not even a second after her silent nod before flicking his sword with a slight motion of his wrist and slitting the man’s throat open. 

Sticking the point of his sword in a pile of shoveled snow, he wipes clean the blade before sheathing it and calling forward a pair of knights. “Take this … thing and throw it into the Sea of Clouds. Leave it for the ravens ─ his ilk deserves naught better.” 

Pulling a worn book from the satchel at her side, Brigie starts writing furiously even as she addresses those gathered in the courtyard. “As I am sure you are already aware, I ask that the four of you as representative of each of the high houses of Ishgard remain here and sign as witnesses before returning to your respective stations. Everyone else is to return to their posts forthwith.” Turning specifically to Drillemont, she continues. “I shall also have to speak with this Ser Prunilla before we are through. The See will be most interested in what she has to say.”

“Of course, my Lady Inquisitor.” Nodding solemnly to her request, he turns to lead her towards the camp’s cells, pausing only a few steps away before turning to address M’aila and Alphinaud. “Rest assured, I have not forgotten the matter which first brought you into our midst. It is past time that you were reunited with your airship, but this is not the time to discuss such matters. I shall be with you as soon as I am able, but please, rest at your ease until such time.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author decides, screw it, I'm gonna post this next chapter early and narrow down the amount of buffer chapters. I want feedback dammit!!

**CH8**

  
  
  


She could grow to enjoy this, she thinks, knife flashing in the early morning light with a rhythmic chopping. A pile of chopped onion grows by the side of the knife, chunks of mole meat piled on the edge of the board and a mortar with ground peppers set to the side. The sounds of the bustling kitchen in the Culinarian’s Guild and the shouts from outside fade into the background as she checks and double checks the little recipe card she’s been given by the Levemaster.

 

Slowly but surely the recipe takes shape, meat, onions and eggs taking shape into a tray of clumsily formed patties with the help of whispered tips from a cook at the station across from her. An oven dings from the far end of the room and, wrapping her hands in the thick apron at her waist, she rushes to remove a steaming tray of flatbread from the heat.

 

A commotion raising outside briefly has her attention piqued, but she quickly dismisses the party of adventurers arguing with the host stationed at the door.  _ Probably another group trying to get into The Bismarck without a reservation. _ Putting them out of mind, she drops her still hot platter onto the counter of her temporary station and picks up her knife. Slicing the flatbreads open and keeping them from tearing soon absorbs all of her attention.

 

"Yo! Breadmage!" The loud, exuberant voice sounds practically in her ear, startling her and ruining the nice cut she'd been making in the bread, sharpened tip of the knife slicing into her thumb instead.

 

Tail puffing out in surprise, she whirls around only to see those same adventurers standing behind her. Their apparent leader, a keeper Miqo'te with black hair dyed green at the tips, is smirking wickedly, one hand on her hip as she looks M’aila up and down, the giant axe on her back with a blade wider than her entire torso marking her clearly as a marauder. Tilting her head back with an air of cocky self-assuredness, she looks at the Roegadyn at her back. “You sure this is the one, Alexey? She looks like any other breadmage to me.”

 

Alexey, a pale mountain of a Roegadyn with dark red hair and full beard and a spellbook bound to his hip, nods. “I’ve seen her around with her bow. Rumor says she’s real good with it too.” His voice rumbles deep in his chest, a slight accent pulling at his words. Catching M’aila’s eye, a broad grin splits his face as he waves a hand excitedly at her.

 

“Umm, I ..” M’aila’s tentative words are quickly lost as the miqo’te charges forward.

 

“We’re clearing out the monster from Cutter's Cry and we need a fourth, so you’re coming with us.” Nodding to herself, she casts a judging eye to the frying pan behind M’aila. “Though, you might want to grab your bow instead.” The taunting smirk returns, a hint of fang peeking out at the corner of her mouth.

 

M'aila's surprised silence has her propping her hands on slim hips. "Well?"

 

Its apparent that she's about to push when a shadow falls over her. "If you can't wait peacefully for her to finish, I'll need to ask you to leave." 

 

Lyngsath has come to her rescue, the Roegadyn chef's typically genial expression shadowed as he frowns down at the newcomer with his arms crossed over his broad chest. She's heard stories from others in the Culinarian's Guild about the guildmaster literally carrying or kicking people out of his domain, and the whispers rising through the rest of the kitchen make her wonder if she's not about to see the truth of it.

  
  
  


****

  
  


_ To the Esteemed Count Edmont de Fortemps, _

 

_ As you no doubt have already heard, certain events have transpired quickly here in the Central Highlands and in Camp Dragonhead. I thought it prudent to send you a report on such before rumor changed these events to be nigh unrecognizable from the truth. _

 

_ Tis true that we did receive in Camp Dragonhead an adventurer from outside Ishgard, a Miqo'te woman by the name of M'aila and her two companions. Modest as she is of her accomplishments, full glad am I to report to you that we were visited by Eorzea's very own eikon slayer. Though her name is as yet an unknown beyond rumor, her companions will spark some level of recognition for you. Long thought missing or dead, Cid nan Garlond has returned alongside the young master Alphinaud Leveilleur, member of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, and grandson of the late Archon Louisoix Leveilleur, of whom I know you had some acquaintance with before his demise. They came in search of a lost airship of Master Garlond's make, on which I shall touch on whilst recounting later events.  _

  
  


_ **** _

 

Juggling a platter of hot mole loaves through the crowded aetheryte plaza of Limsa Lominsa is not an experience she'd care to repeat. Weaving between adventurers, merchants, and craftsmen alike, it's a wonder none of her commission falls from its place in the stack. 

 

Finally reaching the glowing mass of crystal and juggling the tray to brace against her hip, M'aila reaches a hand out and in her mind's eye threads a tendril of her aether to mingle with that of the aetheryte. 

 

Gentle chiming fills her ears, the crystal greeting her warmly even as she gently brushes past it to find the connecting aetheryte in Swiftperch. The smaller aetheryte there adds its own chime to the song in her ears even as the Limsan crystal gently wraps her in its energy and lifts her up into the gentle wind of teleportation. The world shimmers in front of her eyes, a crystalline blue filling her vision before she finds herself standing in the grassy common area of Swiftperch. 

 

A quick glance around for her target shows a Lalafell leaning against a create set against the side of a building. Dressed in rough fisherman's slops and a rough woven grey shirt, he appears at first glance to be watching over a young Roegadyn struggling with a fraying fishing net. 

 

The light catches on glassy blue eyes as he turns to see who's approaching him, a broad grin splitting his face in two even as a calloused hand brushes a wisp of grey hair back into his topknot in an unconscious gesture. "Why if that don't smell like those mole loafs I asked fer! You couldn't have better timing, my girl! Boats're just about t'come to dock afore the storm rolls in!"

 

Fewon Bulion twists his little torso to look back at the Roegadyn behind him, an arthritic crackle sounding as he does. "Ye can stop makin' a mess o'that net, Rolf. Come take this from the little lady an' set it out for e'ryone. No filching afore they get back either!" 

 

Rolf grumbles under his breath as he starts detangling himself from the net, and Fewon's eyes glitter with amusement. Tugging on her sleeve to bring the tray down to his level, he sneaks a handful of loaves off the top, juggling the hot loaves between his hands even as they disappear into the pockets of his slops. A sly wink at M'aila and a finger to his lips has her pressing her own together to hide a giggle.

 

Once her hands are free and Rolf disappears from view with the tray, he hoists himself onto the crate and pulls out a loaf. "S'goo'! Ye make 'm yersel'?" The words are barely discernible around the mouthful he's taken, puffing air as he speaks to try to cool his mouth. 

 

She nods mutely, small bit of happiness and pride curling behind her breastbone in much the same way as the tail behind her. Pride expands in her as the Lalafell quickly devores the others he'd stuck in his pockets, crumbs of hardened flatbread flaking off and littering his slops and the crate beneath him.

 

"Ye've certainly earned that payment, girlie." Reaching into a pouch on his hip, he withdraws a handful of coins, counting them out and returning the excess back to their home. "Good enough for a bit extra, I'd say. Those're a might tastier than our usual grub, an' I appreciate it." He pours the coins into M'aila's hand, closing her fist around them when she tries to protest the extra payment.

 

Knees cracking, he rises to stand in the create so he can wag a gnarled finger in M'aila's face. "None o'that, lass. Tha's the 'greement wi' the 'venturers guild, it is. If'n we like what we get and we think it's better than what's usual, we pay for the extra. E'en if it weren't expected o' me, ye've earned it with that batch." His face warm into a fatherly smile before he makes a shooing motion towards the aetheryte. "Now go on an' get back to yer 'venturing. And don' worry bout that tray. We'll see it returned te yer guild."

 

The teleportation back to Limsa Lominsa is much the same as the prior trip - a shimmering haze overlaying her vision when the large crystal wraps her in its aether, vision filling with a crystalline blue while something not quite a song fills her ears as the two crystals temporarily resonate with each other. The oceanside city filters into her view shortly after and she gently eases her aether away from the humming crystal. Turning to leave the central plaza, she pulls herself short upon seeing the group of adventurers from earlier standing behind her. 

 

“Thanks for saving us the trouble of finding you! Ready to go hunting now?”  Their leader steps into M’aila’s space and smirks, folding her arms over her chest and tail curling as she cocks her hip in an unconscious motion to balance against the weight of her axe. 

  
  


_ **** _

  
  


_ Regarding the events surrounding the late Inquisitor Guillaime, it would appear we were all played the fool. ‘Twas M’aila’s own doing that brought to light the suspicion of heresy that was to be levied against Francel himself and started this sequence of events, yet I cannot help but praise Halone that she saw fit to send her into our midst. Over the last few months House Haillenarte has been plagued by accusations of heresy.  _

 

_ How dearly I wish you could have seen her in battle, fighting heretic and aevis alike in Francel's defense. The inquisitor's own guard had been filled with heretics, and though we knew not at the time of Francel's attempted trial, the Inquisitor himself had been murdered before his arrival at Whitebrim Front some few moons prior.  _

 

_ She was the one to find his body, on Master Leveilleur's urging that something didn't seem right, and to bring proof of his heresy to Lord Drillemont. I came across her whilst Francel and I were en route to act witnesses for the imposters accusation, and would you even believe she was the one to finally slay Lutin? To think that creature has finally meet its end at the hands of such a glorious warrior! To have seen her fighting it with bow in hand and only her untrained chocobo to lend her aid, and soundly defeating it! It was a marvel and beautiful to behold, and I pray to Halone that I might never forget that sight.  _

 

_ To then have also been able to fight at her side when the false inquisitor, surrounded in the midst of Whitebrim Front, turned himself into a dragon, was such a joy that I cannot put it into words. We know not whether twas merely illusion or if he became a dragon in truth, but he fought as one possessed of all their might and ferocity. Twas she and Lord Drillemont who claimed the final blows, returning him to his natural form for Inquisitor Brigie to pronounce his sentence. _

 

_ Full glad am I to report that House Haillenarte has been free of these false accusations since these events. I'm told that Lord Drillemont yet plans an excursion into the Stone Vigil now that the heretics in the Central Highlands seem to have quieted down. As yet, there is no change of activity to be reported from the Steel Vigil and all is well in Camp Dragonhead. _

 

_ Yours, _

 

_ Ser Haurchefant Greystone _

  
  


******

 

“I thought you said you’d already been through here!” Sand slips under her boot as she dodges a pair of snapping mandibles. An arrow goes through the eye of the oversized ant even as M'aila kicks off of its head to dodge the grasping jaws of another.

 

Biggs’ laugh is gleeful as her axe cleaves through the hard exoskeleton of what appears to be their leader. “We were! They must remember us!”

 

The screech of pain sounds from the giant mrymidon as a portion of exoskeleton falls away from its body and reveals tender flesh below even as one of its other legs manages to pin the Miqo'te to the ground. Healing spells wrap around Biggs as she tries to wriggle free before she gets bitten. 

 

"Are you  _ even trying _ not to piss them off this time?" Kiht's yelp is sharp as she dodges an antling that had almost gotten its jaws around her tail. She scrambles away from it and up onto a ledge rimming the small crater in the middle of the chamber, only to find more elezen height ants crawling out from hidden cracks in the walls, pincers snapping with agitation at their leaders pain.

 

Scrambling onto her feet, Kiht bursts into a sprint as all of their attention changes from Biggs to the armorless Miqo'te that just entered their vision. "Someone! A little help please! I can't heal you  _ if I die!!"  _

 

"A little busy!" While Biggs has now gotten free and is back to hacking away at the enraged creature, M'aila diverts her attention to thinning the swarm of smaller mrymidons chasing Kiht around the edge of the chamber. Bow glowing a deep orange, her arrow multiplies itself even as it leaves the rest and shafts rain down on the amassed crowd even as she backpedals quickly away to build distance between herself and the extras that she's now gained the attention of. 

 

A shouted warning comes only seconds before fire blooms behind her, Alexey's egi taking care of the vilekin that had been creeping up on her unseen. It looks startlingly like a miniature Ifrit, aetherial flames blackening miniature horns with soot, and though Alexey has more than proven that he has control over it, memories of flame blackened claws raking across her back have her giving the summoned creature a wide berth nonetheless. How she survived that fight on her own, she still doesn't know. 

 

"Biiiiiigs! Hurry up!!!" Kiht's voice is thin and panicked as she dodges yet another myrmidon as it pulls itself free of the wall. 

 

"You don't pay my repair bills!" The words rising up from the pit are gleeful even as the force of pincers hitting the flat of the axe push the slender Miqo'te been in the sand.

 

"You'll have to worry about more than just that if you don't kill that thing and help me!" Kiht's shrill voice is almost drowned out by Alexey's booming laughter as he sends another round of spells at the side of giant myrmidon encroaching on the Marauder's space.

 

Noticing her steps starting to flag, M'aila reaches a hand down to her harp as Kiht passes her position. A quick, invigorating tune pulls itself from her fingers as the dark purple and white haired Miqo'te passes behind the pillar that's now to M'aila's back. As soon as Kiht is clear, another volley of arrows is prepared and sent into the air where the healer had just been, finding their targets in the backs of the monsters following her. 

 

Between her arrows and the egi’s fire, the numbers swarming Kiht thin considerably and with one final screech, Biggs’ axe puts an end to the leader’s thrashing. Even as M’aila clasps her hands around her flattened ears in an attempt to drown out the ear piercing sound the swarm around them scatters and disappears into sandy nooks and crevices littered throughout the chamber.

 

The silence in the chamber is almost deafening now, broken only by the gasping breaths of the adventurers. M'aila slowly makes her way back to the centre of the pit. A burst of warm wind wraps around her ankle, easing the soreness and confirming her suspicion of a possible sprain. Coming up beside Kiht, her thankful smile is returned with a warm one armed hug from the slightly younger Miqo'te. "Are you ok Kiht?"

 

"Oh just  _ fine."  _ She snarks, soothing the tuft of white fur at the tip of her tail while sending Biggs a pointed look. Jumping down from the raised lip of the cavern's edge, Kiht picks her way across the loose sand to rejoin the others at the edge of a slowly moving patch of quicksand.

 

"Is that it then?" 

 

Biggs barks out a laugh, stepping forward and saluting as she sinks out of sight without answering M'aila's question. Alexey follows as soon as she's clear, and soon enough it's just M'aila and Kiht left.

 

Kiht at least takes pity on M'aila's confused expression. "The chimera's a lot further in, but we should be able to beat it now with you with us."

 

Confusion turns to open resignation, and she laughs, shifting her grip on her staff when it starts sliding through the sand. "It should be quiet the rest of the way though. There was a sandworm a couple levels down before, but we took care of that one last time we were here."

 

She nods her head towards the sandy pit, braided white forelocks swaying against her cheeks with the motion as her grin turns wicked and taunting. "Let's go catch up, someone's got to keep those two alive and out of trouble."

 

Her mouth twists in distaste at the thought of how much work it will be to get all this sand out of her tail afterwards, but M'aila steps up to the quicksand in the same motion as Kiht and soon the mrymidons chamber is empty once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a downtime chapter, but we now get to meet some other characters! These based off of my IRL friends and FC-mates that convinced me to start playing this game in the first place.
> 
> And so starts my nickname of Breadmage lol (for always being on a crafter when we try to queue)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter this time, but there's a lot packed in here.
> 
> Thanks go out to [Emet Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub](https://discord.gg/juatmUP) for their support and encouragement in writing that heat AU, but it's time to crack down and get back on track with the main fic now!

 

 

**CH9**

  
  


"And it was all a lie! The sandworm was not dead!" M'aila seethed as she passes the desired wrench to the hand poking out of the side of the Enterprise, tail thwapping the wooden boards beneath her with irritation. "And even worse it kept coming straight for me no matter what Biggs did to get it's attention!"

 

A wordless grunt drifts out of the engine compartment, Cid only paying half attention as he focuses on fixing half a decades worth of disrepair. 

 

"Alexey and Kiht think it was a different sandworm and that maybe the one they killed had a nest somewhere. They said it was easier to kill than the last one. And then we finally managed to kill it after they convinced me to lure it into one of Alexey's spells, but after that there was _another_ patch of quicksand." 

 

She's so engrossed in the retelling of her latest adventure that it takes Cid three tries to get her attention to take back the wrench and pass him the next tool. "Do you know how long it takes to get wet sand out of fur, Cid?" A grunt of effort followed by a clang as the tool drops to the bottom of the compartment is the only answer she gets. "It takes forever! I'm _still_ finding sand!"

 

Alphinaud, leaning over the railing above her head with sketchpad in hand and as yet unnoticed, wonders if this might not be the most he's heard her speak at one time since he first found her taking sanctuary in Thanalan.

 

“Do you know how angry chimera’s are? Who in the Twelve thought they needed three heads!!!?”

 

What started as a sketch of the Enterprise itself has turned into a candid portrait of one of the last remaining Scions. While the ship itself is only plainly rendered, much detail has been put into the figures on the paper. Cid's heavily muscled arm sticking out from the engine compartment and grasping for one of the tools laid out on a mat within reach. And M'aila, hand on her ankles and legs loosely crossed in front of her and bow on the ground beside her, face in a ¾ profile and more animated than he's usually seen her as she now recounts what seems like a very reckless fight against a fully grown chimera. He's even managed to partially capture the way her feline tail flicks with built up energy as she tells her tale.

 

Before long his sketch is mostly completed, and Cid is asking for the crystal she had initially been sent to gather. Testing is run on the internal systems, and then he’s pulling himself out of the belly of the airship shortly after that. Wiping his hands on the grease stained edge of the cloth the tools are laid out on, he hauls himself to his feet, palm flat against the side of the ship as a brace.

 

It's a matter of minutes for him to pack up the tools and seal up the airship, time enough for Alphinaud to stow his sketchbook away in his pack and come down the ramp to meet them. 

 

"How fares the Enterprise, Cid? Is she sky-worthy?" 

 

"According to my tests, the device is now functioning in perfect harmony with the crystal. Meaning we can leave wherever we're ready." 

 

With a nonchalant shrug, M'aila walks up the gangplank, boarding the newly restored airship. Seeing that she's holding a compartment open for him, her saddle bags already stowed away has him lengthening his pace to reach her. 

 

"My thanks. Are you ready to face the Lady of the Vortex, my friend?" Her ears flick back briefly, whether in response to his question or the sounds of the gangplank being drawn away now that Cid is aboard Alphinaud is unsure. But her nod is firm and confident, and so he doesn't notice white knuckles clenched around the compartment lid.

  


*****

  


He remembers. Cid remembers everything. Forcing herself to focus on what she'd seen and the lingering dizziness left by the Echo allows her to temporarily move on from the roiling nervousness in her stomach. The clarity of his newly regained memories are a suitable enough distraction, and it's vastly better for her to focus on the man piloting the Enterprise than on the high, looming pillar of clouds and wind in the distance. 

 

The question of what happened to make him forget everything he was burns in her mind, but instead she asks about life in Garlemald before he fled, as if she didn't just see all of it from his own point of view. The questioning glance he sends clearly says that he already knows of the echo and how it manifests, but leaning against the railing and looking out ahead as she is, M'aila doesn't catch it.

 

Cid's voice is low, barely carrying over the wind rushing in M'aila's ears. He tells of places and people he once knew, life in the Imperial academy, collaborations with a yearmate by the name of Nero, attempts to curry his father's favor. While Alphinaud is listening with barely concealed curiosity, M'aila barely hears a word he says, stories passing through her ears much like the wind, the sound and rhythm of it serving to calm her reaching pulse nonetheless.

 

Garuda. What's Garuda like? For all that she'd already faced Ifrit alone, Titan was all the more difficult and terrifying for her inability to keep her distance from him. Garuda, with her mastery over winds … would she even be able to shoot her bow in that maelstrom? None lived who could tell her what it was like to fight Garuda, there were no tips or prior knowledge she could glean about the Ixal's goddess like she had with Titan. 

 

Slow measured breaths do little to ease the racing in her chest, and not for the first time she wishes there were someone else that could fight in her stead. The knot in her gut grows tighter with every malm they come closer to the swirling vortex of clouds, dread at not knowing if she'll survive filling her. 

 

The look she'd received from Alphinaud, trust and unbroken faith in her ability to win this upcoming fight, prevents her from giving in to it, the thought of all the people that would be tempered or die outright should she fail forming a thin wall of icy resolve around her heart. She can’t fail. She can’t let herself fail. Like the other fights, there’s too much riding on this.

 

Shivering as the ice crystal that's now part of the Enterprise activates, she stares down into the vortex, brow furrowed with effort as she tries to stomp down the fear raging in her gut. Behind her, Cid launches into another rant about Nero's recklessness with experiments.

  


*****

  


Garuda is …. terrifying. If it's not the howling wind keeping her from hearing which direction the attacks are coming from, it's the dust and debris flying through the air and in her eyes, or the high pitched screeches and cackles coming from all directions and none at the same time. As it is, her ears are flattened as much as she can flatten them. One close call was enough, and one of those razor sharp feathers slicing through the thin skin of her ears is the last thing she wants. 

 

Hand clutching onto a boulder, she careens behind it just in time to dodge another blast of wind. It shakes so badly with the impact that it may not last another hit, but she’ll take what cover she can get for now. Coming back round to take another shot at Garuda, the blood drains from her face at the sight of green feathers as long as her leg and as large as her head sunk deep into the stones face. 

 

They glint dully in the dim daylight coming through the clouds and M'aila knows without even touching it that the edges are sharp as a razor. A rush of wind is her only warning as Garuda drops down in front of her, taloned hands clawing at the level of M'aila's head.  Ducking just in time, M'aila manages to finally land a shot with the arrow she'd nocked while behind the boulder. 

 

At point blank range, the flash of poisonous aether is minimal, but the arrow sinks deep into the feathered curves of Garuda's chest, finding little resistance from ribs or muscle. With a screech, the harpy queen of the Ixals disappears into the clouds overhead, pieces of M'aila's arrow falling from the sky soon after. 

 

The wind picks all of a sudden, whirling and tugging at her clothes and hair in a vicious cyclone. Dodging the feathers being cast about in the wind, she can just make it a patch of still air in the centre of it all.

 

She's almost clear of the wind when there's a sharp pain at her neck and everything goes black, Garuda's shrieking laugh blending into the howl of the wind.

  
  


*****

  


Alphinaud is impressed. For all that Garuda's winds keep knocking M'aila's arrows off track, she's still managing to wear the primal down somehow. It would seem that the faith placed in her by the former Scions and by the people of Eorzea has been well placed indeed, if this is a sample of her skill.

 

From the glimpses he can catch, she's quite agile, dodging razor sharp feathers and pillars of Ixali built stone torn apart by gusts of wind with apparent ease. Though dimmed by the sheer amount of wind aspected aether, he and Cid can still see the glow of her arrows, and he cheers silently every time one finds its mark. 

 

There she goes again, dodging and twisting to evade Garuda's attacks and firing back at her with every chance she gets. It's enthralling, and captivating, and he understands now why the Scions had such unbending faith in her. 

 

Making it all the more surprising when a cyclone flares up in the middle of the plain, and M'aila stumbles and crumples to the ground. It's only when Garuda's winds calm and she has yet to rise that he starts to worry.

  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUESS WHAT?
> 
> ISHGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARD!!!!!!
> 
> I'M SO EXCITED FOR THE ISHGARD RESTORATION!! Not sure how it'll effect my posting frequency, but OMG I missed this city so much!
> 
> As ever, thanks to everyone for reading, and to Wistala in the J&T discord for the beta!

**CH10**

  
  


_HEAR_

 

Silence reigns, no sound but that one word echoing in their ears. A sound that isn't a sound. Stillness and peace are all they know, all that has ever been, until that one word resounds across their senses.

 

_FEEL_

 

Feel? There's nothing to feel. Nothing but the aether surrounding them, supporting them. The gentle ebb and flow of some great aetherial tide carrying them from one unknown point to another. Everything is soft and silent and calm, as it should be in the natural order of things.

 

_THINK_

 

M'aila bursts into awareness, bright green eyes squinting against the brilliant blue light surrounding them. Something … something's happened. What though? She can't … she can't remember.

 

_HEAR_

 

The sound of chiming crystal fills her ears. As the only sound to be heard outside of Hydaelyn's voice it's deafening. It's -

 

_FEEL_

 

She feels … exhausted. Like she's just been forcefully woken from some soul-deep dream. No, not a dream, it was -

 

_THINK_

 

What's happening? Why is she here? She was fighting Garuda. There was a cyclone, and a … a pain. Her hand flies to her throat, finding unbroken skin and naught but the phantom memory of pain.

 

_MY DEAR CHILD._

 

It's only when M'aila actually _looks_ in front of her that she sees the massive tower of glittering blue crystal floating in front of her. 

 

_NOW IS NOT YOUR TIME. RISE. FIGHT ANEW. RESTORE BALANCE TO THIS WORLD._

 

Hydaelyn. What? Why is she here? She was fighting Garuda. What’s going on? The fight wasn’t over yet. Cid and Alphinaud are still there. _No_. She can’t let them be tempered. She needs to go back, needs to -

 

_RETURN NOW TO THE LIVING. CONTINUE YOUR FIGHT. RESTORE BALANCE TO THIS STAR._

 

As soon as she thinks about returning, her vision wavers, Hydaelyn becoming naught more than a vague shimmering ocean of blue before her vision fades to black. 

 

She hears nothing for a moment, and then the distant sound of wind fills her ears. Gradually, more sound filters in - battle, a high pitched laugh, squawks from the deep chests of some over-large birds. 

 

Thick blades of grass and mountainous gravel feel rough on her cheek. Her limbs are slow to respond though eventually they do, sluggish but shifting enough that she can push herself to her knees. Briefly listing to the side, she grabs her bow and pushes herself to stand on unsteady feet. 

 

Garuda's back is turned to her, the Lady of the Vortex fixing her attention on Cid and Alphinaud and urging her Ixali followers to strengthen their attacks. Having dismissed M'aila entirely, this could be her only chance to strike her.

 

Quietly as she can, she draws an arrow from the quiver on her back though it likely doesn't matter. The din of battle and Garuda's cries would drown out any sound she could make but the risk isn't worth it, she thinks, nocking the arrow and slowly sidestepping to stay out of Garuda's sight. 

 

Her arms are shaky as she draws back the string, gathering aether to the point of the arrow in a slow black and red swirl and she forces herself to hold steady as she takes aim. The glow of aether grabs Garuda's attention only as it flies into her back, sinking deep from having been fired at point blank range. Black aether bursts from the tip, surging out from between her feather clad breasts and turning inwards with a malevolent red glow.

 

Garuda's back arches with pain - is it physical pain, or just perceived? The thought is fuzzy as it passes through M'aila's head - wind bursting from her chest as a bright green crystal slides out from the wound. Garuda appears to shrink slightly as it comes free, collapsing to the ground as the crystal tumbles and rolls to land at M'aila's feet.

 

Scooping it up, she runs around the mass of feathers to put herself between Garuda and where Cid and Alphinaud are fending off the Ixal’s attack. Readying herself once more, she stares down at the Lady of the Vortex along the shaft of another arrow. Surging back into the air, Garuda levitates proudly as aether flows into her. Feathers reform and flesh knits itself together in front of M’aila’s eyes. “You think you can defy me? You, with your mortal weapons? My power is limitless! My children _legion_! Did you truly believe you could defy a god, landwalkers?”

 

Thin brows narrow as she realizes the aether seems to be coming from a specific source. A quick glance to the side confirms the suspicion. A small crowd of Ixal hiding behind those Alphinaud is fending off with his spells are bent in prayer, chants rising and falling as they pray to their goddess. Already Garuda looks as hale as if there’d never been any fight, despite the loss of the crystal. Her voice is as high and contemptuous as ever, booming out around them while she drones on, laying out her plan of attacking Gridania first before moving on to the rest of Eorzea. All the while M’aila takes note of which parts of the landscape have survived Garuda’s winds - which boulders seem durable enough to hide behind and which areas are more gravel than grass and need to be avoided.

 

“And _you_ , landwalker ….” M’aila’s focus comes back to Garuda in a rush, meeting the primal’s scowl with one of her own. “You who dared to raise your hand against me! _You_ shall be the first to pay for your sins!"

 

A cyclone of pure aether gathers around her, voice increasing in timbre until M'aila can feel it in vibrate in her bones. "No longer with your death, you will serve me landwalker! To your last breath!"

 

The cyclone suddenly surrounds her, green-tinted aether whipping her hair around her face and obscuring her sight. There's a tugging at her senses, at her _self_. For a moment she's thrown back to her encounter with Ifrit, with his scorching breath demanding her obedience. That same bolt of fear she'd felt then lances through her now, all-consuming until she feels a warmth bloom within, the same as had protected her then yet even stronger now for some unknown reason. 

 

The aether turns from the green tinge of Garuda's winds to the same crystalline blue that surrounded the Mother Crystal, flying back and knocking the primal prone. Green feathers drift lazily to the ground around the Lady of the Vortex as she staggers to her feet.

 

"No! You should be mine! What are you? What have you done to me?" The aether around her appears sluggish and stagnant now, as if the ferocity has been blown away. 

 

"Why do you not tremble at my might? Why do you not beg for mercy?? WHY DO YOU NOT _DIE?!"_ A wave of her arm sends yet another barrage of razor sharp feathers flying at M'aila, yet with the Echo and Hydaelyn's blessing thrumming through her, dodging them is now effortless. 

 

"That foul stench! I see now … _She_ has touched you. Very well … then you shall die!"

 

"IS THAT ALL?" A new voice rings out across the canyon, deep and male and somehow familiar, though she can't place it - and startling enough to halt Garuda's continued assault. 

 

"O Lady of the Vortex! O Mighty Garuda!" A man in heavy Garlean armour leisurely strolls towards them, voice metallic through his helm. "Of all primals the most terrible. I say again … IS.  THAT. ALL!?"

 

Garuda's temper is as tempestuous as the winds she commands. Whirling to face the newcomer, she hovers over all of their heads, wind slowly regaining it's frenzy around her. 

 

"Gaius …." Cid is panting and out of breath as he and Alphinaud come to stand at M'aila's back. Startled, she follows Cid's gaze to the armoured man. _That_ is why he seemed so familiar. She's seen him so recently in Cid's own memories. How could she not recognize him right away?

 

"Is that all? IS THAT ALL!? Insolent mortal! I shall make you _suffer."_  

 

Whipping back to Garuda, ignoring the twinge of pain in her neck as she does so. M'aila can only witness in horror as twin cyclones appear around the Kobold and Amalj'aa captives. Their cries are lost to the howling winds, but the feathers racing in the cyclones currents are easy to see.

 

"What is she─" Red and yellow aether rises from the Amalj'aa and Kobolds both as those inside collapse to the ground. "Twelve preserve, she cannot mean to─" The horror and fear in Alphinaud's voice matches those same emotions rising in M'aila. She's seen this happen twice before, and her legs freeze in place as aether coalesces into two terrifyingly familiar beings. Her heartbeat fills her ears, a rapid staccato drowning out all other sound.

 

"No … no, this is all wrong …"

 

"Surrender yourselves into me! _I would feast upon your aether. NONE SHALL STAND AGAINST THE WIND!_ "

 

"Stop gawping, boy! We must run!"

 

It's only when she realizes the two to her back are gone, fleeing back to the Enterprise, that she musters the strength to move. Sprinting as fast as she can, she catches despite their headstart only as they reach the boarding plank of the airship itself. 

 

Whatever Gaius says is lost to wind and distance, but the mechanical monstrosity falling from the sky is clearly at his bidding. The sight of it falling upon Ifrit, and absorbing the Lord of Flames aether is difficult to believe, yet unmistakable. 

 

"BEAR WITNESS TO THE GLORY OF THE EMPIRE! It is _you_ who will suffer, Garuda!"

 

Gaius' voice booms out across the plateau, amplified by some unseen force. The creature or machine that he's summoned soon adds a yellow glow to the red already pulsing through it's frame as it takes Titan to task just as easily as it had the first primal. 

 

The Enterprise lifts into the air just as Garuda is snatched out of it, her shrieks reaching their ears easily. Finally in the air, it turns slowly, far more slowly than Cid would like given the cursing she hears from the engineer.

 

"Such is the fate of those who oppose the Empire! Your skills are impressive, but they will not be enough. If your leaders are as wise as they are reported, they will surrender."

 

It's only when they're out of the canyon and leaving Gaius and his machine behind that M'aila pries her white knuckled fingers from the ship's railing. Her knees collapse under her and her bow clatters to the boards beside her.

 

As the blessing ebbs low and flows out of her, the pain returns, bruised muscles and bloody cuts making themselves with a deep pain at her neck the most prominent. Twisting to lean back against the hull, she raises a hand to rub idly at the muscles of her throat only to yelp in pain when her fingers encounter an open gash bleeding freely down her neck.

 

"A - Alphinaud." Her voice is hoarse, barely there as she draws his attention. Actually looking at her for the first time since her fight with Garuda, it's hard to miss the way the blood drains from his face and how he fumbles for his spellbook. 

 

His questions of what happened, is she alright, and demands to stay calm fall on deaf ears. Hand shaking and unwitting of her rapid descent into panic, she lifts it into view only to be greeted with crimson blood wet and sticky on her fingers. As her vision fades to black, so does the realization come to her that Garuda had in truth slit her throat. And that she had died during battle.

  
  
  


************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know what you thought!! 💙💙 I love reading all the comments and hold them close like the little gremlin I am.
> 
> If you're looking to find me, I'm on Twitter (@batih_m) and in the wonderfully wholesome and debauched Emet Selch book club ( https://discord.gg/juatmUP )


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wasn't intending on touching on this bit, but it seems I had a number of you worried for M'aila with the last chapter. ...... sorry not sorry?
> 
> Warning increase on this one. Sadly not due to smut, but moreso body horror/gore/panic attack depictions. Heads up on those to anyone reading this chapter

 

**CH11**

  
  


It's two days later that she starts to wake from the healer's spells. Consciousness comes and goes as each spell fades back into the ambient aether of the Black Shroud, snippets of conversation passing in and out of her awareness.

 

"- Ixal raid - they're getting - should really -"

 

"- found Yda and Y'shtola at -" 

 

"Hold him steady, now! We need to set that -"

 

"- letter came for you at the Waking Sands from Lord - made an impression, it seems. Not that we've read - addressed to you after all! - moogle wouldn't hand it over till we could prove you were -"

 

Time passes in a haze until M'aila realizes she's laying on a bed somewhere. There's a soft female voice speaking from somewhere overhead, but largely uncomprehended as she struggles for consciousness. 

 

"-the one that came with us into Cutter's Cry. I recognize - We were talking, me, Biggs and Alexey. - invite you to join our FC, but you're a hard girl to track down. Didn't think I'd stumble across you here, of all places."

 

A hand passes softly over her forehead, brushing strands of lank hair out of her face. "They say you came in with a bloody gash in your throat. Won't say what you were fighting, of course. Only that it's a miracle you didn't bleed out."

 

Other sounds start filtering in, the gentle rustling of leaves in the forest canopy a backdrop to the quiet murmuring of the open air infirmary. 

 

_ Conjurer's Guild then. What happened? How long have I been here? _

 

A sudden gust of wind blows through the clearing yet the fear that jolts through her feels somehow distant and faint, as if it belongs to someone else. Yet her heart starts racing at the thought of Garuda on the wind, coming to finish what she started. The haze keeping her calm fails beneath the force of her panic. Struggling to open her eyes,to sit up to defend herself, she finds herself unable to do more than twitch her fingers against the hand holding hers.

 

Her heart races in her chest. All she can do is lay there, panting for breath, fighting to open her eyes. The voice beside her raises in alarm as she begins to hyperventilate. 

 

_ Garuda! Something's wrong! I can't move! Where's Garuda?! _

 

"Kiht! What happened?"

 

"I don't know! Her pulse suddenly started racing!"

 

M’aila’s screams are confined within in her head, thrashing and writhing against whatever is holding her down. All she manages are weak little ear twitches as they try to pin back against her skull. 

 

_ What? No! I need to fight! _

 

"The sedation shouldn't be wearing off so soon! I'll have to put her under again."

 

_ You can't fight the Lady of the Vortex! Not here! _

 

"She's going to reopen those wounds if she keeps thrashing like that!" There are hands at her throat, pain exploding under the gentle touch. A faint whimper is all that makes it out of her throat, a far cry from the scream she wants to loose.

 

"You there! Help me sedate her! Kiht! Repose please!"

 

Mentally, M'aila is baring her teeth at whoever is touching her neck, urging her arms to move so she can throw off the attacker. Has Garuda already tempered them? Are they going to take her before their Mistress? 

 

_ I won't let you! I won't! Get your hands off me! Twelve curse you, let me move! Let me- _

 

As quickly as the panic set in, it fades away as Kiht's spell takes hold on her mind. Gentle darkness and quiet are all she knows as she's forced back into a healing sleep.

  
  


\-------------------

 

_ Wind howls around her, sharp and cutting just as deep as the feathers carried on its currents. Dead as she is, the sensations do naught to her numb skin, and she fights on unheeding.  _

 

_ Garuda's screeching laugh fills her ears. Yet even the rush of battle is gone. Dead limbs continue fighting, reattaching and knitting themselves back together every time she falls. Yet still she fires more arrows and slashes at her foe with her knife whenever she gets close. _

 

_ A feather soars overhead. One of her ears falls to the ground. There's no pain, only the detachment of seeing her ear removed from her head yet not even bleeding. Somehow she knows it will grow back. Battle is all there is. Battle is the only thing worth pursuing.  _

_ Fire. Slash at an arm that comes too close. There's the tip of her tail.  _

 

_ Another ear falls to the ground, yet the first is already growing back.  _

 

_ A wave of Garuda's arm leaves her throat cut open again. Worse than before, yet her lungs keep pumping even as her trachea knits itself back together. Ragged flesh is caught and shredded by the wind even as it's pulled together by glowing blue strands.  _

 

_ No matter. She can still fight on. The dead will still fight on. She's a weapon. That's it. Weapons exist to defeat their foes.  _

 

_ Fight on. Fire another arrow. Dodge. Slash. It doesn't matter that she's just lost her hand and knife. Fight on. Fight. Fight. Fight. Fi- _

 

Gasping for air, chest heaving beneath the heavy hands holding her shoulders down, M’aila's eyes snap open. A face. There's a face right in front of her. 

 

_ Too close! Fight! I have to fight on!  _

 

Writhing, she fights against the person in front of her, arms weakly pulling at the arms over her. They release their grip and she scrambles backwards as far as she can go _. Have to get away! Have to fight! _

 

Her back hits the headboard and she looks around, surroundings a blur as her eyes track the numerous people in the area. 

 

"-ila!"

 

_ Weapon. Where's my weapon? _

 

Her green eyes widen in a fearful stare, ears laid back and long tail puffed in fear. Her pulse is racing, adrenaline pushing her to fight, to run and keep fighting.

 

"M'aila!"

 

Ears twitching with the sound of her name, she suddenly notes the lack of pain in the flicking appendages, caught by the sensation of them whole and unharmed. Trembling, her hand slowly rises to feel them, make sure they are as whole as they feel, yet she freezes once more at the sight of her hand and arm. Her skin is whole, unblemished by cuts, gashes, or scars. 

 

Unthinking, her hands dart to her neck. Feeling, groping for any sign of a cut, all her trembling fingers encounter is smooth skin and a faint barely there dip where it was once cut open. Heart still racing, chest heaving as she pants for air, she can't help but feel for her ears, her tail, everywhere she remembers being cut and injured. All are whole.

 

"M'aila?"

 

Wide eyes dart to the side, startled green meeting Cid's concerned steely grey. It takes a good few moments before she even realizes who she’s seeing, heart still pounding in her - now whole - throat. When she does speak, her voice barely reaches above a whisper, vocal cords still stiff and unyielding from the healing.

 

“Cid?”

 

His beard goes crooked with the reassuring grin that quirks one side of his face. "Good to see you again, lass. You had us worried."

 

His eyes still scan her face, worry apparently not completely gone. "How do you feel?"

 

Slowly she comes down from her crouch at the top of the bed and takes stock, pretending she doesn't notice the healer at the end of the aisle poised to jump in. Her heart is still racing, but otherwise there's … nothing? A deep seated soreness in her ribs, back, and spots along her and and legs, but otherwise … nothing. She can't help but poke and prod at where she's certain the hole in her neck should be.

 

"I'm … alright?" The dream was so vivid, she almost can't believe she's alive. Is this another part of the dream? Will she wake up and still be fighting Garuda?

 

Slowly, as if he's worried she'll bolt on him, his hand reaches towards her. The heavy calluses on his hands are rough, grip gentle as he pulls her hands from her throat. Static builds in her ears, and suddenly she's hyper aware of the way it feels to swallow air down her throat.

 

Slowly he turns her hands over on his grip and holds them between his large palms. "Easy there. You're ok lass." His is calm and steady, pitched lower than usual. "Breathe with me, alright?"

 

The request is odd enough to claim her full attention and distract her from examining the area and people around them. He quirks a small grin at her again, and takes a large deep breath, exaggerating the movement.

 

"Humour me?" Exhaling slowly, he lets their hands drift slightly down, raising them minutely as he breathes in again and she follows suit.

 

"Easy now, you're safe. It's okay, lass."

 

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Easy as it is to breathe in sync with him, her breaths still shudder out of her with every pass. Suddenly she feels silly and very small, and Cid's hold on her hands is all that stops her from withdrawing, wrapping her arms around her knees and curling into a ball. 

 

"How about we get you out of here, hmm? The conjurer's said you still have some deep bruising and you'll be a might sore for a while, but the worst of it is healed now."

 

"That's it? Already?" The tremors threatening to take over have slowed, Cid's distracting serving its purpose.

 

He's released her hands in favour of getting on his knees and rummaging around underneath the bed. There's no pain in her ears as she consciously turns them to listen to the murmur of the healer down the aisle and then back to Cid. Muffled though he is, his words are still clear enough to her to hear despite it.

 

"You've been under those sleeping spells for almost a whole moon now, lass. They lifted them a few days ago. Said you'd be free to go soon as you woke."

 

“That long??” Incredulity fills her face even as she looks at the trees around them.

 

It had been midsummer when they were preparing to fight Garuda, the Fourth Astral Moon had just begun when Cid was finishing his preparations on the Enterprise. Squinting at the boughs above her head, she notes with alarm that, indeed, she can see the faintest hint of yellow creeping into the tall poplar’s leaves. 

 

Climbing backwards, he pushes himself up off his knees with a grunt, depositing her bow and a basket filled with pieces of gear. "Here you are. We couldn't save all of it, I'm afraid. Garuda did a number of your armor -" he carries on as if he doesn't see her flinch at the reminder. "- and it's beyond mending."

 

Her pouches are still there, leather worse for wear but still serviceable. Below those are her boots, dagger, and a tunic - no, a dress she sees as she pulls it out. It's a pale green in colour, long sleeves ending in scalloped edges, with a fitted bodice and wide neckline edged in subtle leafy embroidery. It's soft and beautiful and most definitely not hers. 

 

"I think the healers gave me someone else's clothes."

 

Careful not to catch the embroidery on the sharp, untrimmed edges of her nails, she lays it out carefully on the bed and across her lap. Her fingers barely touch it as she traces an embroidered vine. 

 

"Hmm? It's not yours?" He takes her boots from the basket and sets them down at the side of the bed. Puzzlement fills his face when he turns back to her. 

 

"No, I've never seen it before." For that matter, when was the last time she'd worn a dress? Before she'd struck out on her own? Or was it back when she'd been a little girl? The fabric is soft to the touch, karakul wool if she had to guess.

 

"Odd. Y'shtola asked me to bring it here for you just this morning. Said she'd found it amongst the packages awaiting Tataru's attention and that it had a note with your name on it."

 

His chuckle is low, rich with amusement. "Your miqo’te friend is none too pleased at having to take up the mantle of receptionist at the moment. But we all agreed it would be better than letting Alphinaud or Yda do it "

 

"Wait--Yda? Y'shtola? They're safe?!" Any other thoughts grind to a halt at the realization that the Scions might not be dead after all.

 

"Biggs and Wedge too! That was a sticky situation to pull those two out of."

 

Her green eyes stare at him in rapt attention, waiting for him to continue and tell her what happened. A grin quirks one side of that short white beard again.

 

"Go get changed. I'll fill you in while we get you some new -" the chime of his linkshell interrupts that thought. The blunt tips of his fingers press against his ear and he answers it with a frown.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Yes, I'm still here, lad." Looking over at M'aila, he mouths Alphinaud's name at her. Canting his head slightly to the side as if leaning in to the linkshell, his attention returns back to the call.

 

"No, she just woke up. I was just about to -" His brow furrows at the interruption, and puzzlement takes over his tone.

 

"Biggs and Wedge should be able to help with that."

 

"Out scouting the castrum?" A quick hand saves his chair from clattering down to the ground when he stands in a rush. "Bloody idiots! Have they not had enough of being captured already?!"

 

"Alright, alright. I'll be there soon as I can."

 

"They haven't let her go yet, but I'll pass it on." He paces around the bed. "No, I'm not sure how much longer they'll keep her."

 

She knows the call is done when his hand leaves his ear to drag slowly down his face. A heavy sigh hisses out of his nose even as it's flattened by his palm. Short blunt fingers run thoughtfully over his beard for a moment before he turns to her again.

 

"It appears I'm needed in Revenant’s Toll. Our little commander wanted me to drag you back with me, but I've bought you some time lass."

 

Fishing a small drawstring pouch from one of his many pockets, he drops it into the basket next to her own pouches. The heavy sound of coin clinking on coin is obvious and it doesn't even bounce, merely rolls as only a full coin purse can.

 

"Ah ah, I'll take no arguments lass.” He soothes, noting her burgeoning frown. “Ironworks coin, that, and we all agreed to chip in for it." A solid finger wags in the air in front of her face before tapping her on the nose.

 

"If you woke up while I was here, the plan was for me to make sure it got spent right, but I guess you'll be on your own." Sighing, he mutters something under his breath but all she catches is something about Biggs and Wedge.

 

A gaze like steel pins her down, and she's suddenly struck with how much Cid reminds her of an over-protective mother hen. "You get yourself dressed and treat yourself to a good lunch. Then get yourself some new armor with that. And no cheaping out like you adventurers always do. I want that purse to come back empty, you hear?"

 

"But, Cid. That's too much, I can't -"

 

"For all you've done for me, and for Biggs and Wedge, it's the  _ least  _ we can do." The impish look on his face gives her no warning before his hand darts in and ruffles her hair. Ducking her head to get away, she almost misses his parting comment as he turns away.

 

"Don't let whatever that dream was drag you down. You're ok and we're all safe, let us take care of you in return."

 

It isn't until he's gone that curiosity has her hand inching towards the pouch. The strings are drawn closed almost as soon as they're open. 

 

_ How am I going to be able to spend all of that?? _


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaack!! A little short and sweet, but I couldn't help myself! :3 Thanks once more to Wistala for the beta!

 

**CH12**  
  


 

 

> _ To the adventurer M'aila, _
> 
>  
> 
> _ My friend, pray forgive my presumptuousness in writing you as such, yet I cannot help but feel some measure of warmth towards you. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Oft do my thoughts return to those most fortuitous weeks in which I was honoured to play host to you and yours. Not only were you instrumental in saving my own dear friend, Lord Francel de Haillenarte, you helped uncover an imposter that could have left so much more damage in his wake had you not lent your considerable aid. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Alas, our respective duties have left little time for me to convey my gratitude for your deeds. And so I hope that this letter finds you well and that you have been victorious in all your ventures.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ I know not when they may bring you to our Highlands once more, yet I pray they do so soon. Perhaps such is a selfish prayer, yet even now my mind wonders what sights you have seen. What wonders might you have uncovered? What beasts have you battled and slain? I can only imagine the heights of your adventures, yet having met you I know that my imagination pales in comparison to the truth.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ We get little news of the other Eorzean nations, and even fewer adventurers braving the Coerthan cold to pass through our gates. I fear with the Dragonsong War occupying our every moment as it does, there is little reason to wish to trouble outsiders with our problems. However, despite that, I hope that should any ventures bring you this way again you might deign to pass through Camp Dragonhead.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ I had heard from Lord Portelaine of a lady Miqo'te associated with your Scions passing through the Observatorium just recently. As I’ve no doubt you already know of these events, it is with selfish curiosity that I share the knowledge and perhaps it might warm you to know of my excitement at the thought of your nearness. And, rueful as I am to admit to it, my subsequent disappointment when I discovered twas not you but another of your comrades! But of course you may not be the only Miqo'te lady in their employ. I'm a slight bit ashamed I did not realize such at first, yet I hope the thought of my presumption amuses you nonetheless. Would that I could see your smile at the thought.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ I oft wonder, should your travails ever bring you to Camp Dragonhead once more, if you might be willing to stay some few suns more? I find myself craving company, and there are few whose presence I would enjoy more than an esteemed adventurer like yourself. I had hoped to entice you with one last meal together after you found your airship, yet I understand your mission must have been dire indeed to have left immediately upon retrieving your airship from the Stone Vigil.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ To which I am reminded of another great deed of yours. Thanks to your work in liberating the Vigil from its occupation under the Dravanians, Lord Drillemont has never been in finer spirits. Work on mapping out the damage done to the structure is proceeding apace. Whitebrim is nigh overflowing with excitement at the prospect of reclaiming it for Ishgard and restoringit to its former state.  _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Naught much else is different from as it was when you last passed through, each day spent much like the last. Since our dear friend Inquisitor Guillaume was found wanting, heretical raids have become few and far between - a rare blessing of late. Yet somehow Corentiaux keeps finding more and more paperwork to be done. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Would it be selfish of me to wish for your presence? I find myself hoping to see you striding through the doors once more, whatever purpose might be behind your visit. I would be selfish and ask that should your ventures bring you north once more that you might grace us with your presence, whether it be for some suns or merely to share a hearth and a meal. _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Once more, I pray to Halone that this missive should find you well. Pray do not feel obligated to respond to mine overture, merely know that you have a friend and a hearth waiting for you in Camp Dragonhead. _
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> _ Ser Haurchefant Greystone _
> 
>  

 

  
  
  
A grey-blue wax seal bearing an imprint of a unicorn lies face up in a pile of letters. Sighing, Y'shtola adds yet another unopened letter to the growing pile of letters intended for individual Scions for later filtering.   _ How does Tataru stand doing this day in and day out? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know what you thought!! 💙💙 I love reading all the comments and hold them close like the little gremlin I am.
> 
> If you're looking to find me, I'm on Twitter (@batih_m) and in the wonderfully wholesome and debauched Emet Selch book club ( https://discord.gg/juatmUP )


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